Diamonds for Miss Braginski
by LePetitPappillon
Summary: The reasons for these sentiments did not make themselves crystalline; perhaps they were birthed from the pain implanted into his own core by that bloodied surgical knife, or the simple cause that the girl had carried tightly as the blush upon her cheeks.
1. Chapter 1

"I can't take care of her any longer…" Eyes were wiped of their discharge and that tiny body was regarded with a gaze captured in the steady hands of pain. "I just don't have enough money. If she stays with me, she'll likely starve to death…" More emotion leaked from the mother's breaking heart. "I don't want to give her up, but I can't watch her die."

"Katya…"

"You'll take care of her, won't you? She's _your _daughter…I've tried so hard, but I can't keep her on breast milk forever. She needs more nutrients and I have hardly enough to feed myself. I need your help…You're her father. You won't allow her a grave, will you?"

"No…Of course not."

"Thank you." More embers of potent internal thought spread easily against the mother's palms.

"Will you be coming to see her at all?"

"I'm lucky I was even able to come this far…Will you look at me?" That woman was dressed head to toe in worn grey fabric, looking as though it was converted from something ancient and dying to create a new vestment, the ensemble composed beneath the wearer's tired hands and a rusted needle. The garment resembled something of a blanket, but was indeed intended as attire. "I don't even look like myself."

The man holding that peaceful child moved his doubtful eye to that visage, resting so easily inside a blanket weaved of serenity.

"…So, you're abandoning her?"

"I'm not abandoning her! I don't have a choice but to give her to you…Do you think I want to leave my child? She's the most beautiful baby in the entire world."

The father did not hold a single word inside his mouth.

"I'll try to see her…I doubt that my visits will be frequent; but I'll try. Please don't assume that I don't love her, because I do; with my entire heart, I do…"

"I'm sorry."

It was the mother's turn to remain speechless.

"…What should I do?"

"…I don't know. I have a bag of her things with me." A rather large sack was taken from the mother's shivering feet and offered to a new custody, the owner of that small set of possessions feeling unknown weight impose upon his innocent palm.

"There are quite a few things in here."

"Yes…I have a blanket and bottles. They've hardly been used. There's a few diapers there as well, and a toy of hers. She doesn't really need a crib yet…I kept her wrapped up in a basket. She seemed happy there."

The baffled father once again set his attention to his daughter, an entire cosmos lying upon his arm.

"She's not too hard to take care of. If you warm some milk for her, she'll likely go to sleep, and she's usually kept on a sort of schedule. I usually tuck her in at about seven and she takes quite a few naps throughout the day…If she begins to cry, just rock her back and forth and speak to her softly." Tears took their inhabitance against her flesh another instance. "She also likes to have her feet touched…And you can bathe her inside a large kitchen pot. I put a little of her soap inside that bag as well, but there isn't a lot left…I'm certain you can find whatever you need at the market…"

The father thought in silence expansive moments, lips seeming to contract into all types of odd shapes. "What is her name?"

"Anna…But I tend to call her Anya…"

"Anya?"

The man was given an affirmative nod.

"Well alright…Is there anything else I should know?"

"…She likes to hold onto fingers. Please don't pull your hand away when she touches yours."

"I won't…"

"Thank you…" It seemed as though the mother would begin another rough cycle of inconsolable tears. "May I say good bye to her?"

"Of course…"

That endearing universe of sleeping flesh was placed back into the arms of her mother, who held her so tightly as all her bleeding loss spilled as precious wine against white cloth. The father was well convinced the child's sleep would be interrupted due to those needy arms.

And it was.

Immediate complaint came from that tiny creature's mouth, yet the cause did not stop the symptoms she had engendered.

"I love you little one. And I'm so sorry…"

Those distraught noises seemed to slowly dissolve and that miniscule life came to a relaxed state of consciousness; her eyes wide and her mouth gently shut.

"I hope I'll see you again, Anya…But you father is going to take care of you now…Behave." A final kiss was granted to the soft blond collection straw adhering to that little nymph's forehead, and a happy noise leapt from her mouth. Legs moved beneath all her heavy coding, and for the second time, she was surrendered with great discomfort to stronger arms.

"Thank you, Ivan. Please take good care of her…"

And the mother left that still growing jewel to the co-creator of that very work, sobs dripping from her mouth and remaining as the thickest and most uncomfortable of honey, their means nearly to drown her. Eyes were censored by all her loss and regret, and each one of those abandoned dreams kept so securely for her daughter. Those items of such innumerable value took their livelihood inside a new set of larger hands, and within that seemingly short transaction, three lives had molded into drastic new figures. The unsuspecting father had been hung without breath by his ankles amongst the highest of clouds, and with stunned nerves and wide open eyes, he awaited a tragic fall.

For a lengthily moment, his stare clung to his new possession as snow drenched that barren earth as a wintry cloak. His irises connected with hers, and he found himself looking inside a breathing mirror, those gems the same hue and tone; perhaps everything. But hers teemed with light and purity, the kind only an ignorant sort of youth could bring.

And it was then that the entire world gave Ivan its weight.

A whole human was now completely dependent upon him, and he did not have a single idea of where his first step should occur.

The father watched as the girl squirmed uncomfortably within the cold; and immediately, he turned towards that gaping door.

"Let's get you inside…"

The porthole closed and two lives began.


	2. Chapter 2

The first task accomplished was several bottles of baby food were purchased, as well as an additional blanket for the child's small and shivering body. A basket was located for her, its old occupation that of clothing hamper. It was kept clean and flaunting a pleasant yellow tone, although Ivan knew his little daughter would not make complaint regardless of the hue that so possessed that plastic flesh. Diapers and milk were bought for that squirming life, as well as a few other accessories left out by the mother.

The Father, Ivan Braginski, felt something as anger towards the woman who had given him so much in such a short period of seconds. Throughout her pregnancy and even her birth she had asked the man to simply go about his life as if nothing had transpired within those nine lengthily months, as though they were filled with another man's flesh and blood. He had asked the girl's name but was regarded with eyes teeming with the owner's imminent rejection, and he was not granted access to the very information he had injected breath into. And now that possessive creator of that malnourished life had dropped her daughter within his arms, as well as his existence, without so much as an announcement to her quick moving feet.

Ivan was left only with a ball of twisted emotion crying within his center, and he did not know how to even begin untangling that intimidating knot.

So, he held his daughter and swallowed responsibility, even though each of those dense articles held the form of a threatening razor.

The first night the child was kept beneath his cautious glance passed with surprising ease. Anna accepted her clothing basket and her teddy bear so near to the ruthless hands of decomposition as though no drastic change had ever occurred. She had only cried once during those long hours, and that was in the primal need of a fresh diaper. She calmed as soon as that taxing necessity had been pacified.

Her make shift crib was kept at the foot of her father's bed, in the event her lips filled with perpetual fit and those wails refused to be quelled. Yet, no such screams breached the serine air, tearing from her content mouth.

The man still possessed the inability to sleep.

His room was too flooded with worried thoughts and future plans and each and every little item that dependant soul would devour. Ivan was making great donation to a child that truly was not his. Their only relation seemed to be alive within those identical jewels poised so carefully beneath peachy curtains, construed of the same sort of azure glass.

His thoughts were branded with all his angered and troubled words, everything that wanted to spill from his careless mouth into the woman's ear biting against his sensitive brow and feeding as a starving tick. She had thrown a boulder against his defenseless doorstep, and all his protests and well considered suggestions came centuries too late. He was dumbstruck then, and dumbstruck now, but of completely different causes and all new symptoms.

Ivan even worried himself of the girl's growing opinion of him, something no one had contained for such a long time. Few had spoken to him, their tongues left inside knots of conundrum, tied by the precise hands of fear. None dared to be promoted to his companion; none even desired to step close. It was as if he wore a heavy brand against his forehead that said something along the lines of, 'Rapist' or 'Murderer'. And perhaps he was. The man himself had grown so accustomed to the world's probing finger tips; he could no longer ascertain the truth, not even for his own ears.

But this life, sitting in such easy peace against the foot of his bed, was not created in the essence of fetid crime of abusive need. She was the light of a moment's dark passions, and although her being had not been intended, she was not the byproduct of unadulterated sin. Even her father, who had not foreseen her visit, found something golden about that immature visage, although he hadn't seized the opportunity to bundle affinity for that minute creature inside his emptied stomach.

He was not even allowed her name before her innocent form came into his muscle built cradle.

A little more rage was collected in contempt of the mother.

When her cries arrived that morning, her diapers were first examined, and when that search came fruitless, the father attributed her pain to hunger. He took to the crying girl, his mind and body worn from a night overwhelmed with pointless labor, and set her momentarily upon his battered chair set so diligently inside the living room. Feet moved him to that kitchen bathing inside that gorgeous morning light and his needy hands employed themselves with a spoon and healthy jar, coming back to see his distraught child in the very same state he had left her in. With kind arms, her body was stolen and placed as a limp doll inside a welcoming lap, a bit of nourishment balanced upon that silver instrument and nearing her mouth.

Ivan convinced that tiny life into a sitting position, and with restless limbs, she complied, that hungry orifice inhabited by its great necessity and excess dribbling upon her chin.

At least her sobbing had fallen into its desired grave.

Another feeding was dealt to the young goddess and the shining article retained its place, a little more cardinal nutrient actually coming into contact with her throat.

"There's no need to cry, little one."

Anna devoured the next few spoonfuls and kicked those senseless limbs in weighty joy, chirping loudly and touching her thoughtless fingers to her father, his stomach, his hand, the spoon, whatever came near enough.

"Do you like food? Well, I do too. We're off to a wonderful start."

Another scream and an tongue well occupied by bloodied carrots.

"Is it good?"

"Ahhh!"

"It's healthy for you too."

The child easily took another helping.

"I wonder when your birthday is…"

The child so content with her face covered in an orange mask did not reply, only slammed those little feet in anticipation for more.

"I should give you one…"

Ivan wondered why the mother had not told him.

Was she even aware?

"Maybe I should just ask a doctor…" For a moment, his mind was taken to the day he first new of that tiny life, although he hadn't seen her until yesterday. With begging questions, he had tried to get as much information as he could from Katya, but every time he was pushed away; rejected so often he had committed himself to forgetting that he had given any one creature life.

"I'm sorry, Anna…"

The child only swallowed her food.

Ivan remembered something of his own childhood, living within that awful old man's house. He did not recall how he was given his placement there, or even why, but no love was offered and no happiness was taken.

He did not want the same for his own child…His entire life had been spent in the pursuit of affection, yet he was constantly left to his own eye and his own voice.

Ivan would love this child with his core. He wanted to love her, just as she required that love.

The child cried in protest as nourishment pressed to her lips, no longer desiring anymore from that container.

"Alright, little one. You don't have to eat anymore."

The cap met hose glass ridges and that tiny life was taken into the kitchen to have her dripping chin cleaned of that bright residue.

Anna did not make complaint as a cloth came to those defenseless cheeks and sopping mouth, only regarded that particular chamber of her new guardian's home with possessive curiosity. Her hands constantly tried to catch her feather's fingers, yet they were too busy with tending to her messy habits.

"I'll paint a room for you…And I'll buy you a real crib. And you'll have something to play with other than a beaten old teddy bear. I'll try not to yell at you out of frustration, and I'll give you a happy life…We can go to the park together, and I'll teach you to speak Russian like a proper young lady…"

"Ahh…"

"Do you think we're going to like one another?"

The child kicked her happy feet upon the tiles lining the counter and sucked her bottom lip into her soaking mouth. Those azure marbles came to the man who had given them to her, and she was left completely unafraid. Her entire supply of unfettered trust was kept inside his great palm and automatic love was born.

It was something that Ivan Braginski was never truly allowed.

"I know I'm going to like you." The father put the rag back into that minute ocean and gave that fresh life one of his numerals. Her entire hand could hardly wrap around it.

That little hand was surprisingly powerful for being so modest.

"Be careful. You don't want to break Papa's finger."

Those clear jewels stared only a moment before moving to something else, grip releasing that man's digit and her body falling without consequence upon the tiles. She did not scream, but she did not move, uncertain of how to crawl.

"Ah! Please don't hurt yourself!" That tiny anatomy was swept up before she could cause any more faux damage.

"_Ahhh!_"

"I'm sorry."

The girl hollered, not breaking into tears but her cry holding upset, yet, in a moment, all her frustrations were wiped clean and she was once again busy with the world so conveniently placed around her. Nothing had changed within her eyes. There was still a home, and a single parent, and a basket with its stomach choking upon blankets all for her little figure. The only true change was that her organs no longer were required to cry from hunger, and she would not become a body composed only of flesh and marrow. She was well light enough to be close. There were times when her mother would not place energy within her aching middle for what could have been days, and no matter how she screamed, that woman would not provide that desperate cure.

Occasionally, she was offered a breast, but Katya wanted her weaned as soon as possible, the child's age increasing and the mother's back in obdurate agony due to the weight of her heaving chest.

All that Anna knew was that her stomach had fallen empty, and howling as a distraught beast usually solved such problems.

And now, that tiny life could be at peace.

"…You're so small."

The young creature closed her eyes, suddenly drunken by lethargic blood and dead limbs.

So much of yesterday had been locked outside beneath that freezing and gentle rain, which the mother would not allow her child to touch, an unsteady human cradle in the essence of movement. Her naps had been destroyed, and her life stolen by sobbing hunger.

She fell asleep the moment her lashes touched.

"Anna? Are you asleep?"

Naturally, the tiny girl did not make reply; only exhaled a large breath.

"…You're really cute."

A steady gust did not even meet the father's attention.

"Can I give you a kiss?"

"Ahhh…" If she could, she would have that friendly man to shut his mouth, of course, in the politest way possible.

Without her acceptance, Ivan's lips were admitted to that blond forehead, so graced by bits of ash and youth, and held to their positions a moment, bringing a little coo from his daughter's sleeping lips and a tinge of heat to his own face.

Oh yes…This little Anna girl would quite certainly steal his heart.

Ivan placed his new responsibility into her basket and his own body to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Ivan had taken his promise to heart and set bright yellow paint against the walls of his sunniest room, constructed a crib for that kicking girl in only a few days and kept her stomach full with the healthiest of foods.

She would cry and he would hold her. She would smile and he would smile back. She required a finger and he would sacrifice one.

It was difficult, but he found that large and overbearing silence inside his home to have dissipated, loneliness banished far from even memory, which seemed to strike as a bullet in the quietest of days, and affection for that heart pumped so full of innocence was growing as a flower within the very peak of spring.

Every action she held inspired quick adoration and great significance.

They would watch television with one another and she would fall into sleep's easy grasp. Her little head lay against her father's powerful arm and her curious hands would be contained inside the most careful of fingers. Ivan would stroke through her messy tough of ashen straw, which he had brushed just that morning when dressing her, and a kiss would be placed upon that willing forehead, always drawing an axiomatic smile upon those red little lips.

The man had seen other children before. He had witnessed their sobs and cries and bitter whines, all bringing their parents utter regret for their passions, but he lacked the aptitude to harbor the same type of thoughts for his tiny angel, sitting so daintily within his lap. For a being so young and requiring so much, the girl was quiet. She would sit as a polite doll, allowing her father all his ridiculous games as she waited in a joyous sort of peace.

She could scream. Oh goodness, she could scream. But those times seemed to come less than they had with other children, and they came when Anna found herself subjected to the utmost of dire need. But her father rarely let her slip into that form of desperation. That growing life was well attended to, and patience was hardly broken, those wretched tears not placed into great demand.

Yet, there came a day when he sat within his room regarding that basket, full of that grinning soul. She was not big enough to take that crib, and Ivan's heart was too full to allow her that freedom.

The father rose and came to that robin's nest, claiming her limp body from that mass of worn blankets and administering a fast embrace before he sat back upon his crinkled sheets a second time. That sleeping form lied upon his supportive lap, and that precious head creating a pillow from his generous arm.

How could that gigantic man cause something so tiny? Her fingers and her toes and that minute stomach…It felt as if he had only given her those lovely jewels flaunted beneath her thick lashes. Her mother kept almost the same hair color he wore against his scalp, regardless. Anna could have stolen that from either donor.

Ivan lied upon his back and gave that sprite his chest, her ear resting comfortably upon his wide collarbone. Breathing was so soft, and a light snore escaped her wetted lips.

"I love you, Anya…"

Those words were natural as emerald upon rich earth.

For a moment, the father wanted to know all the things that could be known of his tiny queen. Her favorite objects and all her opinions.

And another was required as he wondered how that woman could have said goodbye with such ease, neglecting that sweet child's birthday and every other truth kept inside that fresh heart. Ivan knew from experience that she had not even marred the surface of that gorgeous enigma.

Katya did not come inside to stay, nor did she allow the father information regarding her daughter's very existence…

He would have supported either of them, and he had tried to, but she would not allow him a roll inside the child's theatre; not until she had the necessity. Not until she was unable to nourish that living flesh.

And when she was forced to say goodbye, they spoke for the entirety of two long minutes and she ran without so much as casting those dripping eyes behind her.

Katya did not want Ivan and she did not want Anna. She knew their quiet affair was a mistake, and the weight placed upon her back was far too massive to lift.

If she wanted the best for that beautiful girl, she would have included clothes and stories and even a birth date.

But the only thing the mother supplied was a bag of dwindling supplies and a starving body that barely held a name. She did not care for Anna Braginski.

Her own _mother_ could not even love her.

She had carried that soul nine months and nourished her with her own flesh, but could not muster affection for her.

The father found himself disgusted with Katya, the entire situation, and the fact that one could not adore such a fantastic being. Within days, he had fallen for that laughing doll, and she could not…Even though she had constructed that form with bare assistance. Ivan was not even allowed to watch.

A tear spread against his cheek and a breath hitched within his throat. The reasons for these sentiments did not make themselves crystalline; perhaps they were birthed from the pain implanted into his own core by that bloodied surgical knife, or the simple cause that the girl had carried tightly as the blush upon her cheeks. Those bare numerals were not grown enough to lift that cutting past from her shattered feet.

Ivan could not grasp leaving her. He could not grasp harboring broken emotion for those glowing eyes and that joyous smile.

And he could not stand to think that this youth, so bright within her innocence, had stomached ill treatment from the woman who was supposed to admire her most. She was not old enough to deserve emotional ache, not to that degree. All the minor wrong doings she had committed were born from utter ignorance of all those incomprehensible laws.

_That child deserves all the love the world had to offer. _

Anna had not earned her punishments, yet it almost seemed as though her short life had been nothing but payment for sin. Her mother had not even fought for her.

Ivan would have allowed his door open to either of those needy women, but the mother had not asked. That position was not potent enough to be kept, and therefore, she had not tried. Her child was given away for the false words she had spoken as the utmost of untouched truth.

Even Ivan Braginski himself had been offered those honeyed words of love.

There was no larger joke set upon the face of that fetid earth.

Anna awoke to her father's tears and placed her palms against his great chest, rising to view his saddened expression. A soft noise erupted from her throat and a mouth came to that chin, lips spread wide and drool lathered upon his flesh. It was not a bite, but an attempt.

_I love you, Ivan Braginski. _

"Thank you, Anya…" Those embers built of internal flame were killed, and the child was kissed for all her valiant efforts. "Thank you…I love you."

"Ahhh!"

And from the ashes of that bitter sorrow came shimmering joy.

"I love you…"


	4. Chapter 4

The father and child sat uneasily as all those judgmental eyes devoured them. Anna was well awake and stared back from simple curiosity. She lacked the knowledge to find the daggers within those observations.

They whispered their words of poison, trying to locate the mother within that tragic spill. Attentions had been drawn to Katya's stomach numerous times before, but they did not know the father, a secret kept beneath lock and key and a blanket of dense ocean.

Ivan held gently to that girl's foot, something of a good luck charm, and awkwardly cleared his throat.

And the first words drained from the curious mouth of the Chinese man, breaching that weighty air of silence suffocating all their throats.

"Ivan…Is that your child?"

For a moment, the Russian man was placed upon his knees before a great panel of judges, and each would decide his imminent fate.

"Yes. She is."

"…What's her name?"

"Miss Anna Braginski. The finest little Russian girl you'll find."

A few faces within the room held expanding smiles, and each mouth held a thousand different words.

The last to place inquiry rose and came to the father's side, and looked over his broad shoulder witnessing that tiny angel's face. A few fingers lingered upon those lips, which were stretched into a large grin. Attention was allotted to Ivan and another request found comfortable home within the opposing man's mouth.

"…Can I hold her?"

Precautious thought had to be taken. "Yes…But please be careful with her."

That doll was offered to those knowledgeable hands, and occupied those arms as the greatest of treasures.

"Oh my goodness…She's so cute."

"Thank you, Yao."

Ivan felt a certain trust towards the current captor of his precious daughter. Several children had been raised beneath Yao's intelligent advice, and he seemed to know the exact pattern that his hands should have taken to support her fragile body.

Anna made a soft reply, and several others came from their places and drew nearer to regard that miniature creature inside the Chinese man's arms.

Those perfect blue marbles touched in question to each of their faces and some even brought that little mouth a smile.

The last to arrive was the blond man with such deep blue eyes. The American…

"Can I hold her too?"

"Alfred, do you honestly believe that I'm going to let you lay even a finger on my daughter?"

"Well, why not? You let Yao hold her."

The Russian man skinned his lips and the current holder of that shimmering jewel regarded either set of azure pearls; the ones caught within the American, and the pair presented so brightly within the child.

"…I think Alfred can manage not to drop her."

"Yeah…I won't drop her."

A great sigh from the father's mouth. "Fine. But I want you to sit down first."

Alfred took the empty chair residing upon Ivan's side and allowed his figure to fall into it, holding his arms out with that odd charmer's grin strewn clumsily all about his tanned visage. That pair of warped lips always seemed to be there…

"You have to be careful, alright?"

"Of course…"

Yao gently gave that child to those American limbs, and either watched that small body settle against those appendages, the girl's mind in a perfect state of utter contentment. Her eyes, donned by her very father, absorbed those jewels of generous sapphire, a misunderstood sort of fascination striking her tiny numerals, as well as that active mind.

"Aaaahh…"

She was so very calm, those growing digits reaching upwards, in the hope for a sample of that strange and beautiful man who captivated her so mercilessly.

One of Alfred's hands came from beneath her figure and granted a palm to that curious set of fingers, the larger digits curling around her hand and holding it as one would keep a precious medallion, a fantastic treasure he earned by negotiation.

"She's so little…"

"I think she likes you."

The only one who did not compose reply was the guardian of that tiny queen.

A laugh erupted from the child's belly and everyone regarded that once still scene with heart stopping shock, especially the father.

That was the very first amusement he had heard from his daughter, and it felt as if it had been wasted upon that stupid child with that pompous grin.

And the joy did not stop. Anna was so happy inside the American's possession; she kept her ecstatic upset, saliva draining from her bottom lips. Yao was the one to take that mess into his sleeve.

"Stop! Stop! Give her back! You're making her crazy!"

"I'm not making her-"

"Give me back my daughter!"

"Alright! Take her!"

That happy child was submitted to the worried father, and the American left, causing tears to infect the little girl's innocent cheeks while a sob occupied her mouth.

"Oh, Ivan…" Yao released a sigh. "Was that really necessary? She was happy…"

The Russian man did not have any form of communication, only spoke softly to his distraught daughter in the only tongue she came near to comprehending, while rocking her tiny anatomy back and forth within those powerful arms.

Slowly, her sobs died from the hurricane they had been to a soft breeze. The aftermath was cleaned from her face and a kiss was left to her brow in consolation.

Anna seemed to deny the existence of her father the duration of that long meeting, her gaze always paces away from that man who held her so carefully and her mouth utterly silent. Usually, soft coos and joyous yells would be projected from her sloppy lips, and the one they were directed to would always respond, but now she sat awake, her cheeks red and her resolve stubborn.

"Anya…"

And it had ended, the child still well upset. Her arms were calmly at her side, and it was clear not a droplet of happiness coursed throughout that miniscule heart.

"She's really upset at you…"

The entire room had drained, all except for the Chinese man, who had adopted a place next to the troubled Russian.

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"I would just leave her alone…As odd as it seems, babies like their space as well."

A lengthily breath was banished from that heavy chest and focus was donned to the angry girl sitting upon his lap, who truly did not want a single thing to do with the man who had created her.

"Will you help me? You've done this before…"

"Of course…Do you just need advice?"

"That would be wonderful…"

"Well…Alright. Have you begun to read to her yet?"

"No…Not really."

Yao offered a weighty nod, quick fingers transferring to those mounds so prepared to deliver wisdom. "You should start. I would also suggest playing games with her…And always respond when she talks to you."

"But she can't talk…"

"Of course she can. She makes noises, doesn't she?"

"Yes, of course…"

"Then make them back. She'll love that…And don't be afraid of making stupid faces either."

"Stupid faces?"

"Yes…You can trust me; she's not going to judge you. She'll probably think it's hilarious."

The father's mouth grew dry of statement.

"You hold her a lot, don't you?"

"All the time."

"Good. Because babies like to be held…And don't be so overprotective."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are…You were upset at Alfred for simply being Alfred. He wasn't hurting your daughter, and look…Now she's just angry with you. I would try to prevent her from doing something that makes her happy only when it's harmful."

Again, Ivan did not have a single phrase worth exploiting.

"Don't worry…You'll be just fine." Another thought was birthed inside Yao's mind. "I would also suggest buying some cute things for her hair."

"Why?"

"Because it's adorable…And you have an adorable little girl. You can believe me; I've seen some ugly babies. I don't think anyone's seen more children than I have."

"I wouldn't doubt that."

They sat in silence for expansive moments.

"Yao, do you think she'll be alright without a mother?" That question spilled as a container full of strong acid, the one who had knocked that hungry substance about the floor immediately regretting the decision made.

"I think she'll be fine as long as you raise her correctly and love her. Some mothers can hardly take care of their children, and some children are better without them there. You need to teach her correctly and always love her…If you can do those two things, she'll be great." And that painful inquiry was met with something of understanding.

"Thank you…I don't think that will be a problem."

Anna made a horrible sort of noise and kicked her legs in overbearing frustration, her cheeks filled with scarlet and her mouth dominated by an unsatisfied pout.

"Come on, now…I still love you."

The child screamed and began to cry.

"I think she wants to go now, Ivan..."

"Well, I do too. Thank you. I'll be sure to start following you advice."

"It's not a problem. Good luck…"

The father was left with his offspring in the center of that large and lonesome chamber, simply watching as she cried, knowing all that upset was built from temporary and misunderstood hatred. Kind words were tucked with cautious syllables into her ear, and that fidgeting mess was kept inside a gentle back and forth motion until her cries ceased. And either left the room to its phantoms and demons.

Ivan's body withered, but he was determined to be a good father to that usually sweet child. It was the task set before him by her faulty mother, who could not even bare to lie eyes upon her amongst the most unfettered of opportunity.

He would offer all the adoration his heart could muster; even though that little Anya's face was frozen with all the upset he had evoked.


	5. Chapter 5

The two sat inside a comfortable chair, a new story book placed before the child and suspended inside the father's large hands. Tiny appendages moved by curiosity outstretched to those microcosms expressed in those lovely hues as words emptied from the man's tongue, that pretty doll well content.

Ivan had followed the advice offered to him as verses expelled from a holy book. Anna's room had crowded with new stories and attractive clothing, as well as a new toy that seemed to attract her attention every time Ivan allowed her inside that sunny little universe. He had also offered her a clip for that short and fluffy hair, a red bow dappled in neat polka dots pinned near her blushing ear. Anna seemed to enjoy its presence, placing tiny fingers gently upon those folds and gaining a wide smile, even when there was not a man to bear witness.

"Aaah…"

"Do you like this story, little one?"

Anna's eyes met her father's and that bottom lip slipped beneath the top edition, legs fidgeting and happiness radiating from those shimmering features as the perpetual light from that great orb amongst the clouds.

Ivan's mouth pressed to that ludicrous tuff of hair and the girl beneath it squealed, beginning to enjoy that silly man's affection and all those antics. Anna's soaking mouth would have offered a kiss in return, but she could not. Ivan was a thousand strides away, even though comfort was found upon his lap.

Her father continued to read and the girl listened, taking each incomprehensible word and bending them into unfettered truths, although their meanings were lost inside that confused translation.

Anna's mouth filled with noise trying to communicate, yet it all came in simple gibberish, her face contorting into something flustered.

"Anya! You silly girl! How am I supposed to finish this story when you keep talking? Don't you want to know the ending?"

"Aaahhh!" More excited babble came into quick production and the creator fell against the seat she had been given, hands growing their own intentions as they fluttered everywhere.

"Oh my goodness. What am I going to do with you?"

The child spewed more nonsense in her easy response, and the father offered the same type of mutilated words, their conversation lasting as that sweet girl projected her legs wildly in all her premature happiness.

Ivan allotted his lips to her forehead and his daughter laughed, her face affected with the hues of a bloom deep in spring, that bow falling from her ruined and disheveled locks.

"Alright. I only have a few more pages left. Then you can do all your silly baby things. But we have to finish this story because if we don't, I'm going to wonder all day what happened and I'll go crazy…Trust me, Anya. You don't want a crazy papa."

"Aaah!" And another long string of utter nonsense.

"I thought you would say so." That wondrous being was placed upon her bottom and a wide smile came upon her face, tiny hands connecting to her father's wrists. She seemed to be quite excitable, yet utterly willing to listen to the story exiting her guardian's throat.

The Russian began to speak again, and Anna regarded the book set before her, her gaze affecting each of those strange letters. Her finger tips touched to them in her ill formed fascination, cooing softly as Ivan gave her their meanings.

The page was turned and those azure marbles adhered to that picture so lost in vibrant colors and pretty brushstrokes. That developing mind treated those happy splashes upon the page as one would regard a beautiful woman, bow falling even further from her dull hair and her mouth seeming to gape a moment. Anna adored the color of her father's eyes and the hue of those mushy meals she was offered three times a day. She loved the tone of her room and the sky so blue above her hungry glance, and all the lovely shades that universe had to give.

Her minute hands took up that piece as Ivan finished his story, closing the book and placing it upon the pile he had bought for that tiny fairy.

"Well there you are, Miss Anya." The man took that bound ribbon from those griping numerals and set it back inside that small forest of wild grass. "Why don't we get something to eat?" A large hand twisted that tough of disorganized blond as a myriad of kisses landed upon the girl's brow.

And she laughed, her hair ridiculous and drool draining from her lips. A quick sleeve wiped that mess away and the father fell even deeper in love with that tiny life.

"I love you."

In response, there was gibberish and a loud sort of chirp spitting from that immature mouth, happiness glowing around that pretty child.

Ivan found himself smiling as well and donned a gentle pat upon her head before picking her up and moving her to the kitchen.

All his worrying seemed to dissolve within that toothless grin. There was a long and treacherous path ahead of those ill grown feet, yet these happy times washed the loneliness from the dull walls and the chambers of that great heart, and all that horrid silence that had lurked as demons around corners had dissipated, only an unpleasant puff of dark smoke.

Ivan loved his daughter with his entire core, and out of all that affection, misery faded as shadows into morning. Her even loved her as she cried and wailed, which is the only time that undeterred love would prevail, genuine as unfettered gold. He loved her enough to spend his allowance on her books and that article within her hair; on her pretty clothes and all the nourishment that nursed that happy body.

And she loved him. He knew she did.

Ivan did not mind wiping the peas form her messy chin, nor feeding her so patiently. It was rather endearing, seeing her smile and spill clumsy mush upon her face.

Yes, he loved Anna, and in a strange way, he was glad her mother could not adequately take care of her. Because he indeed could. And he was finally allowed his sweet daughter.


	6. Chapter 6

Persistent knocks beat upon the door and the man with his precious jewel in hand stood before it, either curious of the situation developing. Ivan allowed that porthole its aggression and placed that porcelain doll inside her sunny chamber, knowing he could not kill with a conscious child.

He returned to that angered frame and offered it freedom, finding the same woman who had granted him such a surplus of joy and sorrow.

Katya's face had grown cold and her cheeks and ears were bright. She wore weighty garments and a false identity, but Ivan knew enough to recognize her. After all, she had passed all her features to her daughter; he would be a fool not to recognize her.

"Good day." Ivan was not pleased at this unannounced visit. "Have you come for money or food?"

"I've come for my child. I want to see her; please…"

The man did not hold comment between frozen lips, only regarded the flakes as they died against her shoulders and caused that rough fabric the ability of discomfort as well.

"Why?"

"_Why?_ She's my baby! Should there even be an explanation?"

"No…I suppose not."

Ivan stepped aside and allotted entrance for the mother, that battered shawl peeling from her anatomy as a snake shedding its unwanted skin, and the door closed upon that world of bitter ice and insufferable storms.

There was so much acid burning upon Ivan's tongue, yet his mouth was welded shut. Wonder at why he fell for this woman so briefly and instantly struck as harmful lightning; having her at such proximity brought all the rage back into his wild heart.

"Is she still here? You didn't give her away, did you?"

"No. I'm not like you. She's in her room, that I spent hours painting for her."

Katya regarded her former lover with fire livid inside those sapphire eyes, her brows bending and her lips accommodating phrase. "Well, Father-of-the-year, where is her room? I'm certain it's the coldest one in this house."

"Yes. So cold she has plenty of new blankets to keep her warm."

Cold stares built of matching hues.

"Well then, where is it?"

"Down the hall. It's yellow."

Katya did not lay her gaze upon the father, nor did she spout anymore of that steaming argument. She simply progressed, that large man stalking behind her with a starving aura of distrust, and they came to that little queen's room. She inhabited her crib comfortably, her eyes in desperation for her father. Noises drained from her mouth, and despite that temporary lonesomeness, her conversation was rather content.

Katya would not admit that her room looked as any wonderful child's living space should have, nor would she give the word that Anna's lovely cosmos was far more than she could ever hope to give. Katya regarded her daughter in her fresh garments and her new chamber and her new life and felt impact of an unfettered disgust that there was not a single fragment left to criticize. That girl had never been so calm in the clutches of her mother's attention, nor had she been granted such an abundance of books.

"Well, visit your daughter. Because once you're done we're going to talk."

"Who said you can dictate what I do?"

"Whose house are you standing in?"

"Whose daughter is that?"

"Mine."

Again, daggers launched in the form of connecting pupils.

The child released a distraught cry, witnessing either parent upon her threshold, and yet neither was willing to play with her.

Ivan recognized his daughter's request and stepped into her universe, allowing his large hands to take her from that oppressing cell.

"Aaaahh…"

"Hello, little one…" Ivan branded his affection upon her brow, as he always had, and her mouth curled into a sloppy grin framed by saliva. Nonsense spilled from her lips and evaporated with a soft noise, another touch adhering to that endearing forehead.

"Are you coming in?" Ivan turned to the mother. "This is what you traveled here for, wasn't it?"

Katya drifted nearer to her daughter and graced her with soft eyes, the minute creature's own marbles shifting towards that familiar yet forgotten face. They lingered with undying confusion.

"Hello Anya."

Another set of destroyed Russian syllables and a curious mouth. The girl waited and gave her shout.

"She wants you to talk back."

"Talk back?"

"Yes. You're supposed to babble back to her."

The woman sighed, her cooperation null. "May I hold her?"

"If you're not going to drop her." The father allowed that tiny form the custody of her mother, a slight whine dribbling from those tiny cheeks.

Katya admired her daughter a lengthily duration, studying those slightly grown features, which seemed to brand her as an irritating outsider, those bright marbles asking her to stay inside her own home.

"Hello Anya." Speech came in Ukrainian, and the child took an air of confusion around her tightly as she wore her blankets. Her best Russian gibberish was utilized, their eyes locking a time after their attempts had faltered.

"Hmm…" The mother granted her long fingers to those silvery follicles, all the thoughts decaying inside her throat.

"Why don't you speak back to her?"

"Because Ivan, she isn't speaking." Anna was handed back to her father, who regarded the original vessel of that kicking life with certain aggression.

"She's going to start some time."

"I'm not arguing with you. You said you wanted to talk. About what?"

The father sighed and admitted that sacred life to her sleeping area, momentary abandonment arriving as the kiss left upon her innocent apple, meant to sustain her in her brief solitude. The pair exited that cheerful room and inhabited another.

They were placed within the main chamber, so full of those silent demons and oppressive discomfort. Ivan choked by simple presence of that thick and blackened aura, and found amazement at the mere aptitude to locate the woman who had birthed that cosmic sunshine, her entire form and fading soul disappearing with that very furniture.

Suddenly, all those passionate words vanished, all into that hungry mist and Katya's frigid stare, and he was left with the painting of his battered socks, his largest toes probing through their weakest areas.

"Well?"

"I think it's wrong what you did…"

"_What I did?_"

"Yes…Coming here and just throwing your daughter away; not telling me her birthday or even anything more about her. I asked you so many times about Anna, even when I first found out you were pregnant with her, and every time you turned me away and told me not to worry about it; told me that you'd much rather take care of her yourself and that you didn't need me or my concerns…Like I wouldn't love her, or care for her. You treated me like I was going to walk into your life and begin beating the both of you into oblivion, then simply sit on your couch, watching television and drinking vodka when I would do no such thing. I took an interest, when most accidental fathers would run screaming, and you pushed me away…I don't think you love my daughter."

Before Katya could launch her protest and her conveyer belt of knives, Ivan shut her lips together and fed her ears with all she did not wish to experience.

"I think you simply cried because you had to give her to _me_…If you truly did love her, you would have allowed me to be her father while you could have been her mother. I would have supported either of you. I would love and care for Anna. I would have made our lives work together, so she might have a chance at normality. But here we are, a night, a pregnancy, and several months later, staring at each other with the intent to kill, all over something that could have been resolved if you had let it…You may say you love her, you may even _think _you do…But would you love her when she's sobbing and screaming for an unknown cause? Would you love her enough to offer _your own_ nourishment to feed her? Would you love her enough to give your money, normally used for all the things you enjoy, for her pleasure and her stories and the clothes on her back?"

Moments occupied by livid stares.

"I don't think you would. I think that's the reason why you gave her to me. Because _I would_ and _I did_…I wanted to be a part of her life, and help you; _help you,_ and you kept knocking me away, carrying a pitch fork and a torch every time I came near to you. Stabbing at me every time I asked about _my own blood_ and setting my body to flames as you walked away. I'd like you to remember that you were the one who removed your clothes first; not I…And even with that fact present _I still_ wanted to know her. I was _still _willing to adore her and I wanted to be part of an issue I helped cause…But I wasn't even allowed to glance at her. You always left her in the care of someone back home when we came to meetings just to avoid speaking with me; just to avoid the stares and the gossip and the attention, even though you had placed the evidence just beneath your blouse. I'm honestly surprised you didn't give her to an orphanage first, or something of the like…You say you love her, but not enough to stay; not enough to let her know her father, who was willing to be there. Not enough to change the feelings of hatred she would have held for me, all because she didn't know me. _Because I wouldn't be there._ Not enough to tell her the truth about her creation…" Ivan stopped a moment to breath. "What am I going to say to her when she grows old enough and wonders where you are? When she sees every other child with a mother and a father, but then she looks to me and questions where you've gone; your legitimacy, _your existence? _What will she say when all the others point and laugh and tell her that her mother didn't love her? _What will I say?_ Can you tell me?"

Of course the mother's lips could not free themselves of the crimson stitches holding them so tightly against one another, droplets of blood pooling against her once clean chin.

"You've taken a big problem and made it even larger. And the solution was always right in front of you, begging to be taken...But you could never even lay your fingers on it, could you? You've got all the qualities of a greedy woman. And that's why I take back my offer."

Naturally, that soul was left with a dry mouth and wet eyes, turning away from the man who had skinned her so brutally and finding another room to inhabit, yet not abandoning the institution she was not welcome inside from the very first step.

Ivan Braginski returned to his daughter, not forgetting all his weighty duties.

It seemed almost ironic that the mother who had come back for her dear Anna was now even further from her than the man who possessed her.

The rest of the day was lost in silence, yet emotions writhed within all those quiet statues, seeping from eyes and the cracks inside their broken hearts, yet nothing was birthed into communication. Even Anna was speechless.


	7. Chapter 7

Ivan awoke that morning with that woman asleep at his side, their child lying within her tired arms, eyes closed and mouth behaving as a slight fountain. The father observed that scene with partial disgust and admiration, his attentions moving from the woman and then upon her sweet daughter.

Anna released a snore that shattered her sleep, eyes opening and an annoyed whine pouring from her distraught lips.

"Were you having a nice dream?" 

"Aaah…"

Large fingers descended upon that wild hair covering her brow, causing them to stand erect towards the ceiling, those azure marbles curious and amused as he did so.

"You're so pretty, little one."

Anna responded with all her usual sounds and attempted to escape that sleeping woman's unbearable grasp, receiving aid from Ivan's careful hands, removing those great bars set around his daughter's defenseless back and legs.

As she was freed, her minute form rolled upon the soft sheets beneath her and a tiny hand touched gently to her messy blond tough as she managed to sit up and make an odd and expansive noise.

"Are you alright?"

Another long string of nonsense.

And Ivan smiled, taking her from the clutches of those complaisant sheets while distributing his nonsensical communication. A kiss was pressed upon her forehead and either cheek, the donor of those kind allowances receiving something as a similar touch in return, the flesh near those lips covered in the child's spit, yet Ivan did not care, only kissed that little fairy's nose.

Anna giggled, touching those miniscule hands to her father's grown features. Her right hand settling against his snout and giving a playful squeeze for survey's sake, laughing afterward.

"Hey…Don't laugh at my nose. You might end up with it."

The tiny thing simply smiled and was lowered into her father's comfortable lap, legs kicking excitedly the entire duration.

"What are you so happy about, little one? It's still morning. You're not allowed to be happy in the morning."

"Aaah!" She became so possessed with that undying energy, she fell over laughing, nearly screaming as Ivan played with her belly, limbs failing wildly and saliva coding her bottom lip and innocent chin. That brief mess was relieved with a generous sleeve.

"I love you, crazy girl."

"Aah!"

"Shh…" nearly silent laughter came easily as the peck upon Anna's brow. "Your mother is asleep."

And amazingly, the child seemed to comprehend her father's warning, her disruption quieting and those lovely eyes connecting with the gaze of the man who had allowed her those shimmering jewels. She still wore her toothless smile and slowly moved those hyper feet, but it was as though all her boisterous volume had been taken and stowed inside her joyous throat.

"Oh, you're so smart. Do you know any other words?"

"Ah!"

"Is that your favorite word?"

An even louder chirp.

"Shh, Shh…" Ivan tried to murder his own joy, its noise birthed with the capacity to reach such a volume. "Mama is sleeping."

"Ahhh…Ahhh…" The room grew silent with those mal formed thoughts built of the girl's youth. "Mmm…"

"That's alright." Another generous press. "You'll understand talking. There's plenty of time for that…Let's get you something to eat."

As Ivan rose with that developing life, the woman adjacent to that missing corpse offered her vision into that unfettered morning light and set a loud sigh against her mouth. She missed that child, and regret filled her barren stomach.

Katya's eyes closed once again.

When the mother finally rose, she found the father and child together, sitting upon the old chair and exchanging nonsense. She stood there a long moment, having no where to place her tired back and eventually just brought her voice from the back of her throat.

"Good morning…"

Ivan took a moment inhabited with active thought and gave the reply that should have been automatic. "Good morning…" The laughing creature fell silent along with that entire room. "Katya, I have to go in for work today…"

An expansive quiet.

"I'll watch Anna."

"Thank you…" The father rose and gave custody of that confused girl to the woman she had spent so much of her life with. "I have to get ready now…If she's hungry there's food in the cabinet, and if she begins to cry you can usually calm her down by kissing her and patting her back gently. If she's upset…Well, you probably know how to take care of her." There was evident sarcasm within those words. "And make sure you speak back to her. She'll think you're rude if you don't, and I want her to have good conversational skills…Oh; be sure to read her a story as well."

"Are you done?"

"No. Don't turn her into a bitch while I'm gone. I actually like her the way she is." Ivan kissed his daughter. "You didn't hear any of that, little one."

Anna's face illuminated with pretty joy.

"I love you."

"Aah!"

Another gentle press was given, and that tiny soul was left inside opposing arms, the owner of those very limbs staring at the man who was walking away.

Katya lowered her eyes upon her daughter, who she had not seen for several weeks. Her weight was grown and healthy, and a bit of height was added to her anatomy, yet she still seemed to very small.

"Hello, Anya."

Babble.

The mother sat against that seat the co-creator had just warmed and regarded her lovely child as if inspecting a porcelain doll for imperfection; her legs and arms were taken into the ownership of a glance, her night gown was judged beneath those pretty fingers, as well as that set of rosy cheeks, pressed gently by those curious blades.

Again, drivel poured without a single restraint from those tiny lips, and again there was not a response. Something within Katya wished to place that gibberish upon her tongue and devour it as worthy sugar, but when the thought even touched her mind, deep stupidity set itself boiling within her blood.

Anna yelled at her.

"Hush…"

An even more persistent howl.

"Shh! I'm very upset and I don't want to speak…Why don't you go to sleep like you used to?"

Anna took what little she was offered and spoke to her mother in all her deformed syllables, beginning to desire the other parent's company. Her arm flopped in the direction that man had evaporated into, that appendage waving as best it could while complaints were directed at the woman who held her captive.

"No. I don't want to talk to your stupid father...Besides, he's probably naked anyway. You don't want to see that."

An angered shout and that misunderstanding life threatening tears, her feet kicking the woman's ample chest as those once rosy cheeks filled with the hues of distress.

"Be quiet; please…"

A predictable sob shattered the air set around them once with such serenity and happiness, and the owner of that disruption produced her emotions, her screams becoming something one would have in deep pain while all her insatiable desires spread about her visage as the running paint placed against a clean canvas.

Anna wailed and she would not be stopped.

So simply, the mother held her inside an embrace, trying to quell that wild fire she had evoked, a hand smoothing over her miniscule back in the hopes of restoring all her former calmness.

It did not return, only continued to vanish as incense smoke from an opened window.

The hollering only seemed to become worse, the donor of that increasing headache heavily convinced that she would never see that magical personage another time, and her life would forever preside inside her mother's impatient hold.

Nearly half an hour later, that possessed child finally ceased, her noises of blatant displeasure relinquished and demanding the energy she had spent creating them. She fell asleep upon her mother's soft shoulder, her little feet dangling upon her chest.

"Finally…"

Anna did not take notice as her father had come back into the room, his hair dampened and his clothing something admirable. Ivan looked important, wearing a white button up blouse while filling black pants constructed in quality. Even Katya was forced to move her eyes towards that sharpness, gaze welling against that garment and then back to the child asleep upon her shoulder.

"Is she alright?"

"Yes…She simply became upset and fell asleep."

The man did not express anything more, only came nearer to that tiny queen and removed her with loving hands from her mother's hold, taking her into a soft embrace himself.

She made a dwindling reply, recognizing those large hands and familiar scent, yet far too exhausted to greet them with her usual conversation and her happy noise. Instead, evidence of heavy disorientation pooled inside the Russian man's ear after scraping past her exhausted throat, and he gave his daughter a lasting peck.

"Good bye, little one. Have a nice day and be good…"

_Because your mother cannot handle you any other way. _

"Aaah…"

"I love you…"

There was only a slight and dying response, and the child was allowed back to the mother, those pretty azure wells remaining lidded.

"I'll be back later tonight."

"Alright."

And Ivan left, giving his two women a surplus of time to sit and wait.

The first task accomplished beneath the new dictator's rule arrived as the small child's body found location within her crib, her actions left unattended as the mother laid within her partner's bed, her body left exhausted by that expansive trip that had eaten upon her bones the day previously, and her mind far too muddled with unhappy thought to allow her eyes correct vision.

To avoid that mighty tidal wave of guilt that was bound to hit against that weakened state, Katya left Anna's door open; her cries capable of shattering the peaceful air that lurked around them and shaking the sleeping woman from all her slumber. If she was needed, her feet would shift.

Anna sat awake within her haven, fingers touching with weighty magnitude to the world given to her by those wooden bars. She allowed them to those blankets piled beneath her, to the light pink pillow lying upon the mattress, to the bear her father had given to her and its unsuspecting ears (which she chewed upon for a while until she grew weary of such activities), and finally to her tiny feet, her curious numerals exploring each toe with an exploratory mind.

The girl eventually sat up and admitted her hands to her scalp, fondling the follicles placed so haphazardly around her crown, hanging there and almost begging to be styled.

"Aaaah…"

They were quite soft.

Her arms fell heavily against her sides and she glanced about the room, noticing those bright hues her father had granted to her, placed so sweetly against those once barren walls, and the floor, and the curtains, and the dress her developing form sat inside.

Innocent nails came into her mouth and she grinned, discovering the notion of liking her space, although she did not truly know it was hers.

And when she had finished with her observations, she babbled, hoping to draw a companion to her who would produce a likable answer.

Of course, no one did.

So Anna attempted to move closer to the bars, but her valiant efforts only amounted to a myriad of wriggling and a distraught yell.

She flopped awkwardly upon her bottom and once again announced her sermon of utter nonsense to all who were willing to listen, yet there was not a response. No one witnessed those intelligent bubbles forming outside her lips, and no one paid their recognition to those searching eyes.

And eventually, lonesomeness struck as a great and stubborn ache, and that tiny girl was left to her silent screams and her vexing tears. The mother heard some fragment of that pain, but did not find enough resolve within her tired marrow to move her withered feet to that mocking floor, or even place attempts at making such a journey.

She had felt as though she had loved Anna, and she was depressed upon giving her to the other parent, but life crushed her as an insect and had stolen all her movement. She fell far too flat to rise against that relentless hammer, the steel that drove that mighty weapon composed of her daughter's cries.

As time passed, Anna gave her determination away and her appendages fell limp against those conciliating sheets with a new sort of racket developing inside her middle. Her stomach had emptied , and without an answer to the first instance of distress, and her once powerful energy dissolved within her exhaustion, she stayed inside that prison, eyes open and lips torn.

The foundation was set for the day to come.

Anna was fed once, she was not offered her story and she was housed inside her previous heaven, the bars molding into something oppressive and her bottom lip shaping that once sweet mouth into a frown.

In the earlier part of the night, Katya looked in upon her daughter, found her to be asleep and went into that snow for a brief walk, her flesh suddenly desiring the icy touches of winter and her legs needing to stretch.

Shortly after the care giver's departure, Ivan returned, finding his door unlocked and that home completely silent, its entity over come with an overbearing darkness and a sort of silence ill creatures loved to inhabit.

"Hello?"

Again, nothing came from that vast emptiness, and Ivan rushed to that fragile girl's room.

Instant relief washed over him as fresh spring water as he took in her image lying pleasantly inside that darkened room once so bright under the sun's discretion

"Anya!" That call came somewhat softly, and the man drew nearer to his little treasure with quiet yet hurried feet.

His eyes rolled about each one of those features, her open eyes to her quiet limbs.

"Are you alright, Anya? Where did your mother go?"

"Aaaah…Aaaah…"

"Yes. Did she leave you here all by yourself?"

Those sapphires presented all the man had inquired, deep blue depression lurking within her heart and held as a great and filthy prize, the girl supporting that gilded trophy looking as though she would cry, not from need or desire or even frustration, but from a sorrow concocted into a ruthless sedative.

Ivan recalled each instance he had held such emotions.

"Oh, sweetheart…" The girl's waking body was taken from her confined hell and held to her father's great shoulders, small arms embracing his neck and lips producing honeyed noise. Ivan spoke with kind syllables. "I missed you…All day I was thinking about you and I hoped I could come home to your little smile. There's no need for sadness, Anya. I was hoping to find you happy."

A dejected whine.

"I love you and I'm glad to see you, even if you are upset. Are you angry with me for leaving you? I'm sorry…I had to work. It would have been so boring for you. But maybe I should have brought you anyway. At least then I wouldn't have been so worried."

A pliable moan.

"How about a kiss?"

"Aaaaah."

"Kiss?"

The girl attributed her sopping mouth to her father's shoulder, making sad attempt to give him that love composing her unknowing heart.

And Ivan kissed her, core writhing inside its understanding.

He assigned all his attention to her little body, holding her away from his own form and offered those drowning eyes a grin, pulling her in for another touch upon her defenseless cheek.

"I love you."

"Aaah…"

"I love you!"

"Ah."

"_I love you!_"

"Aaah!"

"Anya, I have to tell you a secret." The father's voice grew grave and silent. "You can't tell anyone."

The tiny thing listened, and the man placed his lips amongst that youth afflicted ear. "I love you." An affectionate peck to the skin with obnoxious noise, causing a small laugh.

"Now tell me, little one. Did that awful woman feed you?" A few seconds filled with unintelligible rambling and a solemn nod. "Of course she didn't! What am I thinking? Did you bath you? You're still in your day clothes…"

Chirping and heavy dribble.

"No? Alright. Let's go fix those things. And then Papa's going to have a nice long talk with Mama so you'll never be forced into another awful day again. Because that's not right, is it?"

A sweet coo and a man set in motion, heading towards the kitchen for those great necessities.

And after her bathing and her feeding, Anna was set back into her room, that body seeming to subdue to rest easily and the man took to his worn chair, awaiting the arrival of that woman who had run so far.

Eventually, she returned.

When Katya came inside, Ivan was anticipating her, yet did not give his attention to anything more than his battered feet, her presence weighty and his even more so.

"So where were you? _Out drinking?_"

"No. Your daughter fell asleep, so I went for a walk."

"You didn't feed her."

"_What?_"

"_You didn't feed Anna! _I did so the first thing I came home and she ate like she hadn't had anything the entire day! I'm wondering, do you simply have a problem with feeding your child or are you too stupid to know when she's in pain? 'Oh Ivan! She's losing weight and I just don't know why!' _What a conundrum!_"

"She didn't want any! The first time I fed her she hardly ate at all!"

"_So you didn't try?!_"

"Why should I? She was quiet almost all day! It's not my fault if she doesn't want to eat!"

"Of course it is! When I found her she was depressed! That kind of emotion doesn't happen without reason, Katya! Especially not in my daughter! _My Anna!_ And I know her! I spend quite a bit of my day tending to her!"

"So what do you want me to say?! _Huh?!_ It's _my_ fault she's upset! I took care of her!"

"_You didn't even feed her!_"

"I already told you, you stupid drunk; she didn't want any!"

They stared at one another a moment composed of painful years, each second containing a thousand different wounds and bloodied daggers.

"Did you read to her?"

"Yes." She had not.

"Did you speak to her?"

"_Yes!_" Again, no such action had occurred.

A long bonding composed of blood lust.

"When are you leaving, Katya?"

"The day after tomorrow."

"Great. I'll help you pack."

"Oh, fuck you."

"_Too late, darling!_ That's why we're here, _isn't it?_"

"Shut your mouth!" Katya left that dour chamber and slammed the man's door to his own bedroom behind her, leaving him where he stood with his cuts welling with blood, and ears collecting the tired sobs of the disgruntled child, her body taken from its dreams by their fight and the woman's careless impact.

The father took no time in joining the daughter's side.


	8. Chapter 8

The woman walked into the bathroom that morning, drew a bath and lied inside the comforting waters for what felt as years. Her face kept above the water's edge as she took in long breath, her short ashen hair wading around her and her hands swimming beneath her body.

Her real intention for that visit was to claim her daughter, having a few more resources since the last encounter, but with such an unpleasant chain occurring since her expected arrival, there would be no chance of Ivan allowing that precious girl into her seemingly irresponsible hold.

Katya did like her daughter, most certainly, she did. Yet, she did not know how to handle that little form, and with her blatant upset at the loss of her father the day before, it almost seemed impossible to even consider allowing that tiny figure back into her arms.

It made her heart weep to think her daughter hated her at such youth, her fingers barely capable of clasping that accursed word.

Hate.

It brought pain to even file it away within all those thoughts.

Her mind filled for an expansive duration, regarding the return of that growing life.

Odd response came as that door swung open, and Ivan stood there, wearing only his undergarments. Katya sat up and covered those ample breasts, regarding her forgotten lover with questioning attention.

Words were left rolling beneath their heavy tombstones.

"Ivan…"

"Yes, Katya?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" The man turned towards that sink and removed his brush from its home within the cabinet, layering it beneath minty paste and giving that woman attention before granting access to his orifice. "So you're sorry? Why?"

"Because…I've fought with you." Her lazy eyes drifted to the tiles lining the earth beneath her. "And it's gotten us nowhere."

Something inside those icy jewels softened, and the bristles continued to work inside that biased mouth.

"I'm only here for another day. Why don't we try to get along? It's not like we're incapable of talking normally. We've done so before. But now we're agitated…I don't want Anna exposed to fighting parents. And it's useless. Nothing will change."

The man rejected that formulating amount of saliva and paste into the sink and rinsed his mouth clean with water. "I suppose you're right, but I'll be honest; I'm still extremely upset with you. But for the sake of my daughter, I'll keep my home peaceful."

Moments born and dead in silence. "May I take Anna to the park today?"

"Fine. I have some things I need to do. When do you plan on going?"

"Later this morning."

A nod devoid of any noisy communication. The brush was placed back inside the home in which it had belonged.

"Alright."

And again, Katya found herself alone within that great vat of cooling fluid, finally allowing its essence to drain and admitting her soaking flesh into a towel Ivan likely used for such purposes.

When Katya found her small and mildly disagreeable makeshift family, she attempted to place a smile against her deceptive lips, although she was not in any form of joy to touch her gaze to that Russian man, holding that little fairy in such captivity.

"Hello."

"Hello."

"Aaahh!" legs thrashed in all that nonsensical bliss and the child utilizing them squealed.

Ivan held no troubles grinning at that.

An odd and brief silence ensued, and finally Katya simply went into the kitchen to locate nourishment for her own complaining organs. It felt as though she had not taken energy in an entire week, living based truly upon meager supplies.

And Ivan continued to play with that beaming girl, sunshine brighter than the morning light painting the room in those clear shades, her body still kept inside that pleasant night gown.

The later part of the morning came with greater ease than it had in days past, and Katya found her daughter upon the lap of the man who had assisted in her creation, that figure clothed in a pretty pink dress decorated in happy flowers. Her bow sat within her forest of ashen hair, and a certain joy revolved around her active limbs, a wide and damp smile strewn upon her blushing face.

Ivan was placed at his table inside the kitchen, not in the actual possession of a desk, and leaving marks against innocent parchment in messy Cyrillic print, an arm possessing the girl's stomach so she did not have unfortunate contact with the floor beneath them. Hands held to that great safety bar, fingers adhering to the fabric lining it neatly as fresh lace, and pulling upon it, curious of what lied beneath that garment and if it was indeed flesh.

"Ahh…" The girl babbled, and after short delay Ivan responded to her inside the same gibberish, kissing his miniature queen upon the crown.

Anna laughed and the mother held her position.

"I'm ready to take Anna now…"

"Hmm…" haphazard strokes were left permanently upon the current canvas, and the man set his child upon the table as if she was a precious porcelain doll inside an auction, kissing her and getting ready to say goodbye, although he was unwilling to let that priceless object go.

"Aaah…" Hands outstretched to the father, who rose and took her back inside that warm embrace of gentle muscle, keeping her to near to his chest.

Anna spewed her nonsense as her figure was granted custody to her mother, and her cheeks so full of speech ceased their abundance, her bottom lip taken into custody by her nonexistent teeth and her eyes so brimming with that new keeper. Their gazes melded and that unknowing life did not seem to recognize the very woman she once inhabited. Anna created communication inside a peaceful sound, and the one holding her did not make a reply to that oddly formed peace treaty, only stroked through that small and golden field developing against her scalp, its texture so silken and its style so reckless.

Truly, she was a cute baby.

And Katya wondered how that horrid monstrosity could have allotted of such a face welded in perfection, and why they had shared their eyes so well.

"Please dress her warmly. I don't want her to be sick."

A nod, and the man shifted closer to the woman, kissing that shimmering article and going back to all his obligations outside that ruined family.

More babble caramelized inside that willing mouth as the carrier moved away.

Anna was wrapped inside a generous quilt and then admitted into that sparkling wonderland of immaculate snow, flakes drifting from their true homes amongst those dull clouds, and a few of those cool fragments nesting upon the innocent's face and her mother's fiery cheeks.

"Do you remember when we used to go to the park?"

The girl did not compose a reply, her being calm, yet something of almost deep perception strewn unnecessarily inside those jewels of azure glass. She seemed almost bored, once so blissful in the grasp of her father's idle hands.

"No?"

"Hmm…"

"Well, I don't really expect you to."

Moments of awkward silence burst into exuberant life and fell into shallow graves, writhing inside that very quiet.

"Do you like the park?"

A friendly coo.

"I do too."

Either progressed in painful solitude inside their own minds, the child, so outgoing in her poor speech, unsure of what battered syllables she could have produced.

That place almost resembled a great and oppressive dream, all the grass and treetops lost inside a passive and tranquil conqueror. The sky was swollen grey and no part of that fantastic sun managed to stab through that fortress of dull and monotonous hues, so entranced with the essence of dying flakes and utter stillness.

There were no children.

The only attendant who took inhabitance amongst one of those biting plains was clothed in simple black, her eyes lazy and so complete with all those things she had once desired. They were lit by all those shattered dreams, the blood of those colorful hopes seeming to be the only thing that brought light to her miserable face. Her company was null. There was no husband, no children, or even anyone to fill that wholesome void retaliated against her, its presence as tightly linked to her sour flesh as the clotting of essence against a healing wound, so very unpleasant and often times born of only sharp pain and loss.

Katya walked past her, their eyes holding brief conversation before the more fortunate of the pair came to one of those lonesome swings. That troublesome and white powder was brushed from its perch and the intruder took her place upon that seat.

Anna made small protest in annoyance of something or other, and the mother readjusted the position of the daughter, an arm curled around her body and a hand bound against one of those harsh chains.

Katya swayed gently, and Anna, in what ways she could, thought of her father and that grasp so warmed by love, those amorous arms, swaying with such ease back and forth with all that brilliant affection livid inside his heart. Her vision was kept beneath her lids and consciousness evaporated from her just as the breath that projected from her suddenly exhausted lips.

"Anya?"

She had fallen into that misunderstood land of dreams and unlearned fairy tales, colors of vibrant and nameless hues revolving around her and within emerald grass, she ran; it was so very warm beneath that great lamp.

"Anya?"

Without an answer, the mother sold her attempts and admired the corpse that sleeper had left her within her arms.

And when they returned, the sleeping queen was taken from her cocoon and set inside her father's strong cradle. He had finished that legion of daunting papers and could donate his entire attention to that jewel kept so warmly against his chest.

The mother retreated back into that cave set so conveniently within Ivan's bedroom, her limb anatomy falling against those welcoming sheets as a wind-up doll that had spent her energy. Her appendages lied as a cripple's broken bones, unable to move and subjected to pain at mere attempts. Thoughts welled inside that resting mind, consideration devouring her as an unforgiving plague.

Hours past in a sort of uncomfortable silence and the entire house fell beneath a great blanket of mute voices and deafened ears, ideas overpopulating the air and leaving holes against those once orderly walls.

Mouths had been sewn shut, yet contemplation formed as a great flood that forced doors open wide.

Finally, dinner came, and before Katya's warm meal and her chilled milk, inquiries raised from her battered lips as the first sprouts of obnoxious spring, the threat yanked from her bleeding flesh and enabling her innards to spill.

"Ivan?"

"Yes, Katya?"

The two were well alone, the child in her crib.

"May I…" Brows furrowed beneath bearing request and a silence willing to shatter marrow. "May I take Anna back…I –uh." Her bottom lip took a small pull from her upper teeth. "I think I have the resources to take care of her now…My pay check was raised and I can give her more. It would be a large weight off of your shoulders, and she is my daughter…"

"No. She's not."

"What?"

"Don't you remember when you first came here, crying and sobbing and _wailing_ because you couldn't take care of her? Damn it, Katya. You believe you can just walk into my life unannounced, give me a child you're certain you'll likely _never _see again, and then come back and tear her from my arms? No. That's absolute nonsense. I've developed a relationship with that little girl, and I'm not going to allow you to just waltz in and break my heart another time. I've had enough of that. You made a decision, and I'm not going to make her life any more hectic than it need be. If you wanted to keep her, why didn't you give her to Natasha, or someone who didn't actually create her, much less expect to have her? You always say, 'I'm her mother.' _Well, I'm her father,_ and being able to support her and give her a life other than starvation, I think I've got just as much of a say as you do. So Anna's not going anywhere, and I suppose you can simply deal with the fact that you _gave_ her to me. And if not, I certainly hope you live a wonderful existence without her."

Moments of silence.

"You can visit but Anna isn't moving."

"So I carried her nine horrible months and allowed her feed upon _my hungry body_ so I can be told she doesn't belong to me?"

"No. You carried her nine months to give birth and starve your child while denying her a father and keeping her all to yourself, only to quit months later and offer your daughter to the same man who you tried to avoid for so long. She _did_ belong to you; certainly. But you granted her to me. And I love her, so much I'm not letting anyone take her from me. I'm going to give her a wonderful education and watch her grow into a gorgeous young lady. I'm going to give her all the things I never had, and we're going to love one another, just as it should be. So go ahead. Keep your upset and your cruelty and make all your little sarcastic remarks. But you should take care to remember that you're in _my house_, and I never had to allow you inside. You're a guest. You have no real place in my home, and you can sleep in the chair. I never invited you into my bed, and you've never been welcome to it."

"I was once."

"No, you weren't."

Quiet came and the woman left that man at to his table, enabling either party to stew separately inside their perpetual rage.

Ivan could hardly sleep that night.


	9. Chapter 9

Ivan watched as the woman left, carrying her small collection of things and beginning her long decent into that harsh snow. The man stood with that child, her arms holding gently to her father's blouse and all her attention falling into his identical eyes, face and entire being; nothing given to the woman who she once knew so heavily.

The door was closed and Ivan went back into his sanctuary, finally emptied of that demon, and devoted thought to that one-sided argument with Katya. It was obvious she had only negotiated and apologized to claim her daughter back; she had never wanted to work at his side in the very first place. Her presence was for Anna, who she did not seem to love, and her hands were left empty.

And Ivan was simply hurt.

He was plagued with her reasons and concern for his daughter. There was the option of never allowing that woman a place amongst their furniture, although she could always take her residence in the frost, cold and whining and unable to enter that warm little container kept so temptingly before her.

But Ivan did not want to see his sweet Anna get hurt, and seeing a mother once every few months, if not years, seemed to be rather unnecessary and truly ridiculous. That susceptible life would grow needy of that missing personage, knowing of her faulty existence and miss her. And it was awful to miss someone nearly every day of the week. And when Anna grew tired of that great loneliness, she would throw Katya from her memories, all until that woman made her unwanted return, only to reopen that bleeding chasm that innocent life had just sewed together. That heart would well with anger at the loss she had kept so long, and her age would only bring her hatred as she grew to comprehend the conditions in which she arose from, as a brilliant flower from the fetid ashes of a cremated soul, feelings of contempt for that ugly mound practically unavoidable.

Anna would hate her mother for leaving her and then coming back to lay eyes upon the girl she might have never seen again; she would hate her for those careless actions and her attempts branded against concern. She would simply hate her for her occupation, and harbor ill feelings for her placement inside that great web of lives.

Perhaps some part of that growing heart would even find hatred for the father, who was usually put to blame in such awful situations, for even bringing her the life she was subjected to.

Ivan did not want to cause such fire within his daughter's core, having adored her with such heavy fidelity. He wanted a happy existence for her, but with such weights set upon his aching back, it was beginning to seem somewhat impossible.

So he took that fresh life into his room and offered a resting place upon his expansive chest, a hand resting so softly against her head and stroking through that wild patch of ill groomed hair. She seemed to be in a similar state, but all her oddly comprised concerns falling for her father, knowing something was terribly off.

"Anya…"

And at the sound of her nickname, attention came to her keeper.

"I love you."

"Ahhh."

"And I'll always love you. Even when you upset me, and even when you become upset _with me._ It's alright if we argue sometimes…It seems normal. But even if you do something that truly angers me, I'll still love you. And I'll do anything to help you with your problems; whether you need a kiss on the cheek or someone to stand up for you, I'll do it. You're my little girl. I'll even allow you to hate me, and I'm sure there will be times when you will, but everything I do will be for your best interest. Because I do love you that much…And I hope you never forget how much I adore you. It's important, little one."

Anna gave her promises in return, even though all that she had said spilled in broken syllables.

A kiss was placed against her forehead as she babbled the longest duration that she ever had, and a little laugh came from her busy lips.

Yes. Anna loved her father as well, and it made Ivan beyond happy to have such a wondrous person so close to his heart that could feel such sentiments, even though each of those wondrous emotions could not be articulated.

A strange moment came as Anna tried to sit up; flopping around against that plain she lied so nicely upon and eventually accomplished her goal, little heels kissing to that wide collarbone.

And Ivan managed to laugh, sitting up himself and lifting that tiny creature from his chest, her form captured inside a sweet embrace. She was held before him, her excited limbs flexing as though they had been sleeping for hours as her cheeks endured a myriad of gentle touches donned by that adoring set of fatherly lips. Loud amusement screeched into the air as that helpless creature tried to kiss that man in return. Finally, those wide open lips caught the tip of his nose, and as always had placed a minute puddle of droll against that helpless flesh.

"Thank you, Miss Anya."

"Aaaah!"

"I love you."

Another scream paralleling her previous input.

"Thank you." Pecks upon either cheek. "Thank you, little one."

Anna laughed and began to calm, eyes meeting with her dear father's and lips pulling easily into a great smile.

"You're so cute…And tiny…And crazy. But I love you, so that's alright. I'm crazy too." Lips attached to that little brow. "And I'm sorry about all the awful things your mother has done. You didn't deserve any of that, but I'm happy to have you, Anya. You're a good girl. I know you are."

That tiny body was set upon the man's lap and fell without heed, the owner of that miniscule plummet nothing but joyous, eyes bright and mouth open.

It was unbelievable how endearing she was.

"Oh, sweetheart." Those hands set her back upon her stand, careful as though she was constructed of the finest porcelain. "It's hard to be upset when you're around."

A laugh and for the first instance, coherent syllables.

"_Paaaaa…Paaaaa._"

"…What?"

The whole universe had frozen and gazes were attached by the strongest of magnetism, hands beyond their control running that great machine.

"What? Anna, what did you say?"

Those cheeks were formed around nonsense once again and contained hues of deep red, that toothless mouth compressing and those shimmering marbles comprised of all her beaming happiness.

"_Paaaaa…Paaaaa._" Her attempts were shaped so oddly, yet they were complete, and they were there, their bodies a compound of love and their existence complete, not mere fabrication by a starving mind.

And Ivan was proud.

"You can talk!"

"Aaaah!"

"I know! You're a genius! Oh my goodness, you're so smart!" A hold wrapped around that tiny form. "You're so young and you're talking! I'm going to tell everyone; they're all going to be so jealous of you because you're such a genius!"

"Paaa-Paaa."

Ivan did not say anything more, only held to that gorgeous child as though she had uttered the most serious words of love, that title repeated several times throughout that long embrace. Even Anna's palms kissed that clothed collarbone as if it was a great handle, and her forehead rested against her father's chest as she babbled and gave him that assumed name.

He was nearly brought to tears, but his very soul refused to cry before those curious eyes. There would only be strength for that tiny queen, even when she tore away those nearly untouchable heart strings, tied them into lovely bows and labeled each one with those endearing terms, all as her newest edition.

And again, Ivan found those horrid demons of sour memories and villains to be banished to the furthest corners of that mighty world, the tool that had done such work glowing perpetually inside his careful grip.

It was quite possible that they would never make their return.


	10. Chapter 10

Anya was no longer Anna, but a different version of the same beauty. Anna was a dull thing drenched in colors dull as that of a month, and Anya was a brilliant bird of numerous shades, something exotic and wondrous in all her plumage. Those beaming feathers were her flesh, and she was not that of a pigeon, lost so deeply inside monotonous city life and hideous normality.

She sat upon those abandoned steps, boots prodding into that easy snow as jewels touched to literature. A purse sat so loyally against her side, lying adjacent to her patient figure as a page was left upon the side of completion. Ashes fell from her flavored cigarette.

Anya, as everyone referred to her, would often times stop by that old church after school, read pages of Anna Karenina and devour three to four of those deathly yet delicious rolls. Smoke would arise from her lungs where her father would not see that very gust; it would break his heart to witness that great haze arising from her pretty lips, and it would break Anya's heart to step upon her dear Papa's heart. And she could not do that.

So every day, two cigarettes met their purpose before school, three to four after school against those abandoned and cool steps, and one within the sanctity of her bath time, where Ivan would dare not reach her; ashes were sent down that greedy drain and the fragments remaining of that shameful habit where allowed their passage through a flush of the toilet, just as the corpses of goldfish or worms or whatever else could be transported through that realm of filth.

Anya had grown. That image of a sweet little girl was converted to that of a sweet young woman, with gorgeous hair and gorgeous eyes holding gorgeous lashes, and in her hands a gorgeous report card. Her height was even something admirable, her crown falling only a short distance from her father's grand size. That girl was long and skinny with high cheek bones and supple lips, the brows residing against that milky white forehead kept usually calm and spaced well from those pristine jewels of rare glass. The appearance that took Anya's body was docile, matching her very core.

And her father was not the only lucky bystander to notice this fresh beauty. Often times, that near woman found herself kept inside that lonely house, reading or completing homework or simply sleeping, exhausted from her biting requirements and too worn to go out with what few friends she kept, even though they were not particularly near in proximity; it was not as though her father wanted her to roam anyway.

Anya loved Ivan, although she occasionally felt suffocated by all his great expectations and overbearing protection. When they roamed into that bustling town, men would fix their gazes upon that lovely creature, and Ivan would glare for her, ready to dismember flesh and cover those unfortunate corpses in deep and merciless earth.

Many simply took to keeping their attentions from that pretty nymph, Ivan's presence well heavier than the one placed beneath question.

Yet, something within that innocent heart did not mind. Anya did not find attraction for any of the boys placed around her anyway, although she was not oblivious to their attention, and had not taken interest in a relationship, having witnessed far too many of her peers with tears fresh inside their sopping eyes and shattered hearts inside their bleeding palms, acting as though there would never be a man so wondrous, and their lives might as well have found their untimely ends.

It seemed as far too much trouble for a few kisses and someone to embrace.

Anya took enjoyment from her cigarettes and literature.

The remnant of that dying cylinder was left upon the snow, buried beneath her merciful boot as her body rose. The bookmark found its page and a purse was taken from the earth's icy grasp.

Briefly, those elegant fingers picked through its set innards and retrieved a small container of perfume. A shiver tore through the bearer's body as that container was shaken up; an attempt to remedy the paralysis the cold had created within that pungent fluid. Puffs of flower and drew drops spread upon those lengthily appendages and finally, her neck, the evidence of ill behavior perishing beneath the fragrance just applied. The lie was replaced and Anya walked home.

As the heavy door opened and shut, Ivan murdered the cigarette he had been smoking and hid that ash tray full of deathly embers upon his lap, eyes darting back to those documents set before him. His hand moved about the atmosphere rapidly to dispel that stinking evidence, knowing it would simply break Anya's heart to see him with a live stick of tobacco in between his exalted lips.

"Hi, Papa!"

"Hello, Anya!" A few silent coughs assembled at the back of his throat. "How was your day?"

"Boring." That lovely doll took a place at their kitchen table with her backpack and book, expelling her brief woes through the life of a sigh, and offering that man across from her a crimson hued curl of those rich lips. "How was your day?"

"Boring." Another piece of formal parchment lied upon the top of that pile and Ivan read the first paragraph before expanding upon that short answer. "They had quite a bit of work for me." Something gained a set of messy print. "And in a few days, I have to go to another meeting."

"Damn it!"

Ivan disguised his smile with uncomfortable and writhing lips, still regarding those nonsensical papers. "_Miss Anya…_"

"I'm sorry." Those easy brows furrowed and another noise of blatant upset filled her lungs just as the air she absorbed habitually. "I really wanted to spend time with you this weekend. I hate it when you have to go."

"I know…I was thinking about taking you with me."

"But…" The only thing that Anya detested more than those dull meetings that took her father away so frequently was attending one with him. A deep boredom was well set within each of the attendants there, and she had not been required to go since she was quite young. No pleasant memories seemed to come back with her, and she was only left with a dry feeling rotting upon her withstanding tongue and plenty of opposition built against Ivan's strange duties.

"Actually, I lied. I am taking you with me." A smile infested with guilt.

"Papa! I can watch myself for a few days…I have before. Why do I have to come with you this time?"

"Well…I was wondering what you were going to do with yourself after you graduate. Do you have something in mind?"

"Well…I was thinking about being a model for a little while, or a maybe a translator, since I like English so well, but I'm not sure yet…"

"A model? Why? You don't need to be a model. You've got a good brain in your head. Modeling is for stupid girls. Besides, no daughter of mine is going to prance around half naked while some dirty old man looks at her photo and-"

"No, no…Please don't say any more. My ears will bleed."

"Well…You understand my point." The pen traced over untouched flesh and the man continued to speak. "Anyway, how about a translator? How much thought have you given to that?"

"Not too much…" Anya's lips twisted beneath her nose. "I was also thinking about learning other languages, but I'm uncertain what I would use them for. I want to travel. I know that much."

"Well, you can travel with me…To my meeting. You might actually take an interest in what everyone has to say, and most everyone speaks English, so…"

"But Papa, that's not traveling. That's just _boring!_ I want go to placed like Paris, or London, or Tokyo, or New York-"

"New York?! Ha! You're a funny girl, Miss Anya. New York…Why would _anyone_ want to be around a bunch of stupid greedy Americans? They eat grease for breakfast, lunch and dinner, you know. And they probably knock themselves in the head with hammers on their free time. Why go to New York?"

"Well, how do you know? Have you even _been_ to New York?"

"Yes, and All Americans are the same. Once you've met one you've met them all."

"That can't be true."

"Have you met an American?"

"Well no, but-"

"But nothing. All Americans are the same."

And with surrendering thoughts, Anya sighed. "Papa, I just want to see for myself…I can't view the world from inside this kitchen. How can anyone learn about other countries and cultures if they stay in one place their entire lives?"

"They can listen to their parents."

"But what if their parents spent their lives inside kitchens?"

"I've been outside my kitchen, Anya."

"Have you?"

Ivan simply looked at her, that gaze so full of question. "You really are a silly girl."

"Alright, well…I'm going to knock myself in the head with a hammer. It might be more fun than you think."

"Try not to bleed to death."

"I'll be careful." Anya adopted her things from that icy floor and drifted inside her contemplative thoughts to the living room and finally to her own chamber, still lost in the embraces of a bright and happy tone.

Perhaps she truly would have knocked herself upon the head with a harmful tool if she had possessed one, but unfortunately, none were available for such assumed American amusement.

Ivan emptied his crisp ashes into that small garbage can, burying those dying particles beneath a flimsy paper towel. Perhaps he had given his daughter a hard time, but that concern was birthed from his affection and loyalty. Ivan wanted that lovely young woman to have a decent life, just as she deserved, and well-to-do jobs could be found inside his profession. He would not force her to return if she could not stand that horrid meeting, but she could be molded into a wondrous assistant, her skills set deeply within comprehension and organization of many sorts.

Thoughts regarding what to pack whirled within that Russian man's head as those papers were branded with his signature, indulgent happiness molding his visage as he thought of that charming youth working alongside him.

But he would not force her into what could very well be her destiny. No, no…It was her decision to make, regardless of what lied inside his lavish desires.

…Yet, that presence would be magnanimous.

No, no…How foolish he was.

Either tenant of that quiet home left their minds to churn with thoughts, and dinner that night seemed to progress quietly.

Anya did not have her eyes set upon that weekend of sacrifice, her days of unrestrained smoking torn from her dainty fingers for the sake of a boring meeting and her father's delicate heart, and she had not even been allowed the courtesy of a choice.

That grown child slept well that night, not of excitement, but of utter lack thereof.


	11. Chapter 11

Anya stood within that lavish hallway, her stomach turning of her worries and her eyes tired as dying flowers. A hand took inhabitance within her own, and disorientation ran throughout her body just as that sleepy blood. There was even uncertainty as to what country she had stepped inside after so many hours of irritating flight.

"Papa…Why did you want me to come with you?"

"Because." There was not any more explanation, only a kiss in its usual place.

The girl sighed and resisted the urge to wipe the tears forming about her eyes, knowing she would likely ruin her visage, those lids left beneath grey shadows and those pretty lashes well extended with a careful line bordering them. Cheeks ingested luminescent blush, and lips were kept beneath a classy wine colored veil. Finally, all those gorgeous ashen locks were taken from their freedom and bound into a cruel bun, held by a strict and unloving hair piece that made that lovely creature wish to scream.

Anya looked like a serious young woman with her body so clothed in a black dress and white shawl. Those red boots still found places amongst her toes, crying loudly of herself, quite possibly the only attire of foot wear she would keep, and she would have been inside an improved state if she could have one of those flavored cigarettes between her dyed mounds. She was dressed far too classily to be missing one of those wondrous pink colored rolls that she adored with such secret passion.

And she felt far too aged and withered not to possess one.

"Now remember, Anya, you must be polite. Quite a few of these people have seen you before, so…"

"You want them to know you raised me well?"

"Yes."

It was far too hectic to have Anya come to each one of those gatherings, nearly set a month from one another each and every time. So Ivan would hire a sitter for that little gem of his, and had until she was old enough to manage herself. At which point, that lovely thing was donned a bit of money and told to spend it wisely in the time that man was gone. And she always had, usually purchasing a box of cigarettes and possibly a movie.

"Papa, once you're done introducing me to all these people, can I go explore? We have a while before the actual meetings begins, don't we?"

"Yes…You're welcome to roam around. If you get lost, feel free to ask someone for help. All the people here are attending, so they'll likely send you in the right direction."

"Thank you..." Even simple words took a toll upon her dwindling energy.

"Hey… You don't have to sound so sad. It's not all about the meeting…Usually, there's an obligatory dinner of sorts we'll have to attend."

"Dinner?"

"Yes…And since this is Italy, there will probably be something good to eat. You like food, don't you Anya?" Her father wore a ridiculous grin.

"No. Food is for people with stomachs. I'm too thin."

"Then we should fatten you up."

A fraction of a forced smile upon her lips and a press assigned to that helpless forehead.

"You're pretty, Anya."

"Thank you, Papa."

"Don't go running too far away. I might never get you back."

"I won't. It would be too much work to abduct me anyway. I'd be difficult to carry because I'm so tall…"

Just as Anya's words expired, they came to a small collection of important looking people, grins painted about their faces in uniform, as though they were all the same subject in a surreal work of art, eyes lacking souls and faces lying of every intent beneath their skin. There were only two women, one dressed in sapphire fabric with a bow pinned against her crown and the other contained within a garment that could hardly house her enormous chest, seemingly ready to rip and threat crying of their unfortunate lives.

The edition with the longer hair and unpleasant scowl, still regulated by her obligations, gave her input primarily, gaze touching to Anya as though she was an unholy sacrilegious monument, her flesh born from the fire of hell and her very blood the epitome of sin.

"Ivan, who is that woman?" Her interjection was placed in Russian.

"This is my daughter…Anna, please introduce yourself."

"Hello." Her circulation underwent an ice age. "I'm Anna Braginski…Clearly. I like movies and books...and languages. It's nice to meet you all."

"It's nice to meet you." The axiomatic reply was offered.

Names came from the mouths of those hiding souls and Anya did not place importance upon their memorization. Yet, she came to that woman with those heaving breasts, and their eyes formed a bond for short moments. The girl regarded those sad eyes as if she was glancing into that melancholy soul, something about their very hue drawing her as a reckless child to a great playground. No heed was paid to having unscathed knees and clothes uncovered in filth.

"Hello."

"Oh! Sorry! Hello." Hands tied in unison, as the near child mauled over that slight accent, wondering where that woman had traveled from. "I'm Katya…I had to look at you a moment, because well-" All those silent pairs afflicted her as though she was ready to upset an already angered god. "You've grown so large. I held you when you were just tiny, so…It's odd to see you so grown up and so lovely."

"Oh, thank you…"

No one had spoken a word of that fetid truth, although their mouths contained the correct syllables for downfall. Lips were bound to secrecy by that large man's warning as well as plea, and the possible fist, taking location behind the very words that could alleviate the girl's wonder.

Ivan did not want his daughter to be hurt, and had not allowed the mother to see her very own flesh, knowing it would only bring that subject utter dejection to have been abandoned numerous times.

"Well, Anya. Feel free to roam around. Please don't get yourself lost."

"I won't. Thank you, everyone." A polite curtsey was offered and Anya went back through the hall in which they had just come, determined for happy lungs inhabited with that fresh morning air and a cigarette to inhabit the same organ.

Those long numerals had found two sundrenched doors composed of the most elegant of glass and followed them outside into a garden of shining emerald and melting snow, the atmosphere made of brilliant winder, yet that occasionally cruel bite of chill upon that creature's innocent skin was something well sought after. After being awake after such long hours, Anya finally found her eyes attentive instead of closed and waiting for the sweet retribution of nourishing sleep. Inside that pretty realm, it was not spring, yet it was still a garden of sorts, flowers waiting beneath their blankets of ice for something spectacular to pull them from their hibernation, and they would not bloom until it arrived as a ray of fantastic shine upon their patient flesh.

Anya's azure attentions drifted to a man dressed in attractive blue with loud trousers and hair light as straw. And as she looked, he looked as well, their eyes melding a moment and a smile spreading against those handsome and compliant lips. A cigarette was poised carefully upon that tongue, thus creating that personage to be the most beautiful and exalted deity she had ever sacrificed her gaze to.

After a moment of shy debate, her feet tossed her forward and she approached that man, hoping for a language she could utilize instead of beautiful yet nonsensical drivel.

With blush present against her cheeks and her hands connected inside a polite knot before her thighs, she wove together English communication, caused by her greatest threads of hopeful gold. "I'm sorry for asking…But may I have a cigarette?"

That man was caught off guard only a moment, but ultimately wore a kindly smile. "Yes. You can have a cigarette, _mademoiselle._" That pretty blond man pulled away one of those identical editions from his trousers and offered it as a warm invitation of friendship before the fingers of the Russian girl. The roll was set between her lips in acceptance and the man gave her his lighter, which was put to use with blades well versed in quick flame.

"Thank you."

And that Frenchman admired her a moment and asked with ebbing words, "So…Where are you from?"

And that lovely creature smiled, thinking it funny he couldn't tell. "Russia."

"From Russia? It was…A long trip?"

"Yes." There was a nod and another version of an answer. "I'm tired."

"Ah. Me also. But I'm French. _Tu sais_…From la France…"

There was a grin set against that painted mouth and a laugh from the man who had posted it there. "I know, I know…_Mon anglais_…It's bad. But don't laugh at me. I'm trying…Hard."

"That's alright. My English is still bad."

"Your English is not bad! Why do the pretty girls…" A moment required for the production of translated word. "Not have the…The confidence? _Oui._ That's the word, isn't it?"

"Yes. I believe so."

And a sigh arose. "Do you speak French?"

"Oh, no…I'm sorry. But I would like to. Do you speak any Russian?"

"_Non_… But I can speak Spanish and German. But no Russian, _ma belle._"

"That's alright. But German and Spanish-"

"Francis Bonnefeuille! Who is that young woman?! Someone you brought with you?! How many times have you been told _not_ to bring anyone from home?! I'm tired of yelling at you over your stupid girlfriends!"

"I am not stupid!" Anya hollered at that distraught man in her defense and rebuttal, the reason why that personage coming so near to them was in such blatant distress evading her. "You're the stupid one! I'm not _anyone's_ girlfriend, and I'm allowed to be here. I was just talking to this man, and we've met for the first time. So be quiet."

And those green eyes rolled over her face, in near suspicion, as though Francis had simply picked her from the streets and prompted her upon all the debate she would input. It almost seemed ridiculous, his height falling slightly before hers and his nose so far protruded into the air. He was made a great and pretentious inspector in a world of criminals, and all those wrong doers were simply laughing at those bushy brows and that instance of coarse hair inhabiting that crown in blond.

"So if you're allowed to be here, who exactly are you?"

"I'm Anya Braginski."

"_Braginski?_"

"_Yes. Braginski._" That Russian girl pronounced every syllable of those short words with her proud accent, clearly as she would within her original tongue, not enjoying the existence of that conversational intruder. She regarded that ridiculous face and the tone of his skin, nearly placid as her own, and wished to meld her lovely mound into a scowl.

"Well, I suppose you _are _allowed to be here then. Considering you're in relation to that…" His speech trailed off while his mind produced plenty of invisible thought. "My apologies."

"You don't sound very sorry."

"Well, I'm really not."

"Come on, Arthur! Leave her alone!" And in came another unwelcomed visitor, this one holding large blue eyes and a warm jacket.

This man looked as though he could have been composed of laughter and sunshine and the constant drive to do right. Shining glasses took residence upon his nose, and they had seen the world, and the world had seen them thousands of times over, but it had not affected the wearer the way it had others, and he was still able to shine that luminescent light upon everyone he made contact with.

He was so…_young._

And as that odd man stood before that beautiful girl, either one became still, their flesh converting to stone as though they looked into the eyes of Medusa, and attention welded into something cosmic, azure jewels kept so innocent reacting as passionate chemicals. They could not be handled by any form of beaker, much less the ones who had placed those wild elements amongst each other.

"Hello..."

"Hello."

Either wore grins wound by the same material.

"Are you American?" Anya improved her English, and all for reasons she could not identify and so suddenly, shame infected her hot blood for that accent she kept so near, that identity connecting to her loyally as her snowy flesh and her father's vision, forced upon her visage as though it was a cardinal necessity…

And the other was so tan…

"Yes. Are you Russian?"

"Yes. I am."

That odd man nodded and again, expansive seconds of study occurred, odd connections knitted between them with wondrous crimson twine.

Arthur regarded Francis with lifting brows and then placed his attention upon that sudden pair's shoulders.

"Alfred, where the hell have you been?"

"I was walking around. Looking at things. You know. What I always do."

"Honestly. I talk to Feliciano for two minutes and you go missing. You should really pay-"

"Wow! The English sure are annoying. Always talking with their weird accents and rambling about nothing."

"Hey! _Your _accent is weird you little git! And I see what you're doing! Interrupting me so you can just go on being reckless! I should-"

"Get some tea and biscuits?" Alfred imitated a ridiculous English accent and projected his pinky into the air.

"Ah! I'm going to tear your face off!"

The Russian and the Frenchman were laughing.

"Oh come on, Arthur. I'm kidding. Can I still keep my face?"

"No!" But instead of brining any form of destruction, the Englishman walked away, and that small group watched, laughter alive within their mouths and grins defining their lips.

"Arthur!"

"No!"

"_Arthur!_"

"_No!_"

"Alright! See you later!"

Anya repressed those twisting muscles and again gave those reflective jewels to the man set before them. "Is he always that upset?"

"All the time!"

"It really is…Oh. What's the word?"

"Unbecoming?"

"_Oui._ Unbecoming. Thank you." That heavily accented Frenchman set his gaze upon the shining face of his wrist watch and extinguished the cigarette within the grass. "I have to go. I need to do something."

"Alright."

"Yes. I will you see at the…" Francis waved his arms towards that building and message become clear.

He was offered a nod from either party remaining, and that sharply dressed blond made his way to that great edifice, and Anya was left to flirt with her new company, their speech sent to mingle and their cheeks injected with bright color.

"Hello again."

"Hello."

"Have I asked your name yet?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh! Then what's your name?"

"I'm Anya Braginski. And you're Alfred, right?"

"Yes miss! Alfred F. Jones!" That perpetual curl remained. "Are you related to Ivan?"

With a minute shiver of concern, she nodded. "Yes. He's my father…But please don't think I automatically hate you or anything…I-" She sighed. "You should know that I don't hate anyone without knowing them first. It's ridiculous to do that when you don't have a reason to. So…" Lips crunched in the fear foolish words were produced from the warmest cavities of her heart.

But to her extensive relief that American smiled with beautiful understanding. "That's a good attitude to have."

"Thank you." The cigarette was extinguished beneath her relentless boot. "I like English too, and don't tell my father, but I'd really like to live in New York for a while. He would be really…" That word flew from her very mouth upon silvery wings.

"Disappointed?"

"Yes! Disappointed. That's right. And um…Also, I don't smoke. Because my father really _would_ tear my face off."

The blond man wore happiness inside a healthy grin. "It's your secret. Although smoking is unhealthy, and you probably shouldn't do it; I won't tell anyone."

"I know…It's bad. But thank you…Do you smoke?"

"No I don't.

"Then what do you do?"

"I eat."

"_You eat?_ Why is eating bad?"

"Because I eat a lot."

"No! You're all skinny, or whatever! Let me check."

"_Check?_"

"Yes! Check!"

"Alright. Just don't laugh at my gut."

"_Gut?_"

"Stomach."

"Oh! Stomach! I have to remember that word…Gut."

"It's a good word." Without much hesitation, that shirt was pulled from a worn pair of jeans and Anya was allowed the sight of that stomach, slightly dappled in golden hairs and an even tone with his exposed hue. One of her fingers contacted that bit of flesh, near to his belly button and that curious hand allotted a careful smack.

"You don't eat too much. You're not even fat."

"Thank you. Arthur is always giving me a hard time about my eating habits."

"Well…He seems like he needs a long nap or something. And a girl friend. Don't listen to him."

Alfred laughed. "He does need a girlfriend…And a nap, possibly even some cake. His cooking isn't very good."

And Anya shared her joy as well. "He's not the only one…"

"Are you suggesting I don't eat enough cake?"

"Oh; no! _I_ need cake."

"Why do you need cake? You seem like a perfectly cheerful person."

"Well…I don't really want to be here. Big surprise, I know. But I was really looking forward to spending time with my father and maybe going to a movie…And usually, I don't have to attend these meetings, but, I had to. For whatever reason. And I am willing to bet that I'll have to go to dinner and make uncomfortable conversation with people I don't know, while my father tells everyone about how wonderful I am. And I'll sit there. And smile, even though I'm unhappy. I don't like being home alone, but I would rather be there than…" Her words met their ends. "But I like talking to you so far. I was expected everyone to be formal…"

"Formal?" Those glassy pearls regarded those casual garments and the American utilizing them smiled. "Not me."

"Usually, not me either. But…" Arms were held out. "At least I did get to keep my boots. Father was upset that these were the only shoes I brought."

"Well. Maybe Vanya just needs a long nap and some cake."

"Maybe I'll feed him some."

And as that meeting came they walked along side each other, Anya's boots clicking against those obnoxious tiles and Alfred's sneakers nearly skidding. In a calm way, they raced against the other, lips molded into lovely positions and glowing as the sun had within that melting garden.

And they stopped a moment, waiting inside that long line to move past those large and overbearing doors built of the heaviest protocol.

"Mr. Jones, May I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"…When Americans have free time…do they hit themselves in the head with hammers?" Obviously, the owner of that inquiry had set her phrase at play.

"Of course! Traditionally, you're supposed to wear a helmet. But for the athletes going to the Olympics, helmets aren't allowed. Did you know that the Americans have won Olympic gold in The Hammer Game for the last fifty years?"

"Is that because they're the only ones who compete?"

"Yes, but that's impressive, isn't it?"

Either of them held their happy stomachs without shame.

"Will you teach me to play The Hammer Game? I want to be the first Russian to compete at the Olympics. And I'm going to win."

"I don't know, Miss Braginski. It's tough."

"What are the rules?"

"Well, you knock yourself in the head with a hammer, and you aren't allowed to pass out or lose too much blood."

"How much blood can you lose?"

"A whole cup until you're disqualified."

"Alright."

"And whoever can knock themselves the most times without losing consciousness wins. It's very simple, but very difficult."

"I see."

"Yes. You should probably start with a helmet, just to get the technique right."

Again, either laughed heartily and finally took their admission into that great hall, gazes bonding before the holders of that slight affection were sent their separate ways. They did not speak to one another; they were not meant to.

So the American went to his side of that great and spacious table while that lovely Russian girl retreated to hers, once colliding worlds sent so very far away from one another.

Anya had felt unknown comfort within that American's presence, although it had been their premier acquainting, and perhaps even the last, however her heart hoped with all its fibers that it would not be. Anyone so kind had a special place within that fertile soil kept healthy within the chambers of her pulsing core. Even if they had not spoken for years, she would nurture that growing relationship into something wondrous and brilliant, what could be a dying flower made into a shining rose of her innocence and loyal affections.

And yet, she was willing to accept the reality of the situation. She was Russian, and he, American. There should not have been such a pleasant union of kind words and agreeing thoughts, and her father would have cried had he seen them standing so quaintly amongst one another, much less the happiness floating as a raft upon a peaceful river from their parting lips and all those innumerable smiles.

It seemed so unfortunate that the man she desired as a soul kept near to hers was one of the ones branded as rouge, an assassin, perhaps even a murderer. Someone she could not speak to, and someone she was not allowed to direct her phrase to.

"Hello Anya."

"Hello, Papa."

Seats were filled, as well as throats so willing to speak.

"Did you meet a lot of people?"

"Oh, only a few."

"Hmm."

"Papa…How would you feel if I made an American friend?"

"Which American?"

"No one. I was just wondering what your opinion would be."

"…You be careful, Anna. You're playing with fire and I don't want you to be burned."

"Yes, Papa."

And that boring edition of glib commenced, brief and weak adoration taken from the girl who presented it as a blessing, her lips and stomach emptied of what former feeling they had and her innards left to bleed in numbed pain.

Anya had become Anna, the version of herself buried beneath all her colors and personality, and the boring twin of identical flesh bearing all her obligation, the true child's hands and mouth bond with a silken cloth as she was possessed by a soul that truly did not belong to her.

And she could only be saved by the sun, calling her so loudly from outside and drawing that imagination from the dour scene blinding it.


	12. Chapter 12

And so, they all gathered inside that dining hall, the essence of that odd chamber a great mix of different languages spoken loudly and all at the same time. English and Russian and Italian and German and French pooled within the ears of those attending as they made donation to that great lingual mess.

Anya had been wrapped within a different dress, yet wore those favored red boots as she had. This time that revered painting of that young woman who was not her was caught inside a lovely net of boring and dour grey, one of the few truly formal pieces she owned, and held a look of imminent boredom, eyes tired and mouth nearly silent. There was enjoyment taken at that great whirlwind of foreign and familiar words scrambling so heinously about, but the reminder remained that this was an obligatory dinner.

They had all come back to that wondrous building they had been inside only hours before, but inside a different hall and for different business. Anya truly did not mind that her feet had not truly touched Italy yet, but some part of her ached for that exploration, her legs wishing to run and stretch and see that beautiful country other than attend to the moronic protocol binding her limbs with such ruthless aggression.

The words, 'I'd like to go now' were continuously stuck deep within the back of throat and refusing to be swallowed, regardless of what she drank. Perhaps they could be knocked away with alcohol, rich and flavored, possibly even enjoyable, but that was the one substance she was not allowed to partake in, her father drinking small amounts at times, yet never allotting her even a droplet for the destruction of simply curiosity.

So she was herded as a compliant and lovely sheep to a table of all those people she had shook hands with that very same day, her body kept next to the woman with large breasts a kindly looking boy she could not recall the title of, his face contained beneath heavy spectacles and his blond hair short. Those eyes were blue, and perhaps somewhat like the American's, but he was from Estonia-she remembered that much-and they were not kept in relation to one another.

Anya pointed her own set of azure crystals forward, glancing absent mindedly to her father, who she could not sit next to due to their own poor punctuality, and did not notice that woman so softly projecting her name.

"Anna…."

Unresponsive.

"Anna…"

"Oh? What is it?"

"Nothing really. I just wanted to tell you that I liked your dress."

"You do? I don't…I like bright colors; not grey. Like green or yellow or red. Spring colors..."

The woman swallowed that awkwardness a moment, drawing in her lips and regarding the very life she had caused with a strange look. "Well, I can understand that. Even if you don't like it, you still look nice. Maybe you could pin a flower to it…Right here." The Ukrainian woman's finger blades brushed with that wide strap Anya kept over her collarbone and then retreated back to her, hands tying together in such assumed politeness against her lap. "You fill your clothes so nicely. You're lucky you don't have such large breasts…"

"Your breasts aren't so big…" Anya could hardly devour her lie.

"You don't have to make me feel better. I know they are."

"Well, I wish mine were a little bigger…No woman ever likes their chest."

"No…"

Anya turned to the one at her side and smiled, witnessing his reddened cheeks.

"Do you like boobs?"

The Estonian wore a compressed grin but did not say anything more than his brightened face already had.

"It's okay if you like boobs. Boobs are nice."

"Anna!" Her father yelled at her from across the table, and that innocent perpetrator began to laugh.

"What?"

"Stop talking about your…"

"We weren't talking about _my_ boobs! We were just talking _about_ boobs! Completely different!"

"Anna; shut up!"

Those lips bathed in color pursed before she grinned widely, her father compressing a curl of happiness as well. One of those large fingers came before his lips and Anya gave her attention to her blushing company another time.

"Well, since we can't talk about boobs, let's talk about something preapproved. Do you like books?"

"Oh yes…I read quite a bit."

"Have you ever read Anna Karenina? I have to read it for school at the moment. I like it so far…"

"How much how you read of it?"

"About…One third; I would say."

"Ah. I haven't gotten to read it yet, but once you finish it, tell me if it's good. I'll pick up a copy."

"I will…I'll likely finish it sometime soon."

Everyone went on with their rambling, speaking with such awful formality as they devoured their dinners between those faux words and spit even more nonsense into the air. Anya didn't keep nearly as many aimless conversations, and after expansive and torturous hours, she felt uncomfortable. Her eyes observed as all those shanty complements and ugly lies pooled within their mouths and nearly became them, once lovely colors of vibrant hues converting to something decrepit and aching with dust. Sickness found easy keep within her middle, her eyes growing paranoid of that clean and pink heart, checking that organ constantly for those horrid burns and rotting sections of flesh, hoping not to be affected with the same leprosy that had become such an epidemic inside those unavoidable and hideous auras.

Eventually, those dying bodies rose and mingled amongst one another, that hall overpopulated with even more diverse speech. Anya went seeking that American man she had been so friendly with earlier, yet she could not locate him.

She had recovered that Frenchman, the Englishman, a Spaniard, and East and West German, Italians, and Austrian and a Hungarian, a Chinese man, a Japanese man, and even a Canadian, but she could not find that American.

Eventually, she simply gave away her hopes and took the side of her Russian father, who was content within the same set of undead souls he had been trapped amongst the last few battering durations.

"Papa, aren't you going to speak to anyone else?"

"Why would I do that, Miss Anya?"

"Because…They might be more interesting."

"Aren't these people interesting?"

There was not a response willing to leave the sanctuary of that lovely mouth.

"I know you're bored. How about we go exploring tomorrow? Or perhaps you'd be happier just sitting around…I don't know."

"Can we get some cake?"

"Cake?"

"Yes."

"Why would we spend money on cake when we could just go home and make one?"

"But…It's cake in Italy."

"Yes, but you can find cake in Russia."

"Papa…"

"I know." A kiss. "I don't understand. But don't worry. We'll find something fun to do."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Alright."

Ivan wrapped his arms around that doll broken of her relentless exhaustion and branded her cheek obnoxiously with a peck, creating a loud pop as he pulled those affectionate lips away. His head rested next to hers and for short seconds; either laughed.

"You're going to make my blush clot."

"I'm sorry."

"That's alright."

"Anna?"

"Yes, Papa?"

"Have you kissed any boys yet?"

"What?"

"It's alright if you have."

"Well…You're a boy. I've kissed you before."

"I'm not a boy."

"No…You're my papa." Anya processed her thoughts a heavy moment. "Boys can't kiss me. They can't reach my lips…I need a man."

Ivan shared his temporary joy. "Good. Boys are stupid anyway."

So Anya spent all her time inside her father's weighty shadow, her curiosity of that great world set around her fading from that great fire into a dying ember. She was drowned in the presence of Estonians, Lithuanians, Latvians, Belarusians, Ukrainians, and Russians. And she simply desired sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Those shimmering eyes burst through the window and curled into those beautiful clouds living against that sunny canvas. They danced with soft instances of light matter and conversed about all the time they would play amongst one another and live so peacefully; how joyous they would be, obligation and sorrow kept against a grey and oppressive sky, nowhere near their blissful universe.

Anya opened that window and allowed that chilly kiss inside, gorgeous sounds of upbeat life filling her ears and the smells of fantastic delicacies and culture brimming inside her mind as a potent high built of ecstasy.

She wanted to go outside.

"Papa…"

The man lied inside his dreams.

"Papa…"

"Hmm…"

"Papa, are you awake?"

"No…Close the window, sweetheart."

Glass pressed obediently to the frame and the young and shining creature rose from her seat, standing by her father's bed side and observing that expression so dominated by rest.

Ivan's vision came to that room and absorbed the soul set so loudly around him. His child was dressed inside a garment bright red with white and even polka dots. Her boots curled around those pleasant feet and her hair had been taken the tenant of a bow, pressing so sweetly to her ear. That gorgeous cascade of curling blond danced so comfortably against her shoulder, nails the hues of a rainbow swimming through those elegant tresses, and had Ivan noticed those contraband colors before he would have requested a change in their ridiculous uniform.

"You're brighter than the sun."

"I'm sorry."

The Russian man sat up from that possessive ocean of loving sheets. "That's alright." A clumsy palm removed the sleep from his frames. "You're better that way."

And that brilliant star anticipated permission to sprint into that vast sky.

"Papa?"

"Yes, Miss Anya?"

"Can I go outside? I won't go far. Just outside the hotel…"Anya's burning red lips curled into her request. "You can sleep a little longer."

"…Please be back soon."

"I will!" That mess of color ran towards the door and picked up her purse, going from that horrid porthole that sheltered her from that great world and dove into those wondrous streets after what felt like thousands of rushed steps.

And her body was donated to that crisp and beautiful breeze, not undying and bitter as she had taken against her helpless flesh for so many months. While that breath branded her as a whip, this edition held her as a lover and kissed that longing flesh so softly.

Happily, those brilliant lips curled and for a moment, she even allowed those sun ridden arms to stretch within that sacred wind.

Everyone regarded her with different reason livid inside their attentions, but she did not care enough to take notice.

Commanding crimson boots drove her deeper into that Italian mess, and with words made of only English and Russian alive inside that excited mouth, she ran deeper into the forest that did not belong to her, well knowing of her barriers and all her possible blunders.

Anya turned circles around that lovely edifice she had been contained captive in, somewhat nervous of truly losing her way inside that bustling universe, finally locating a place to let her tired legs sleep.

Again, her gaze alive with such curiosity breached that great sky, and she could do nothing but allow those attractive petals to morph into something even more appealing.

Something within her very essence was happy, and even without her cigarettes and sleep, that very feeling could not be daunted. Her colorfully painted lids took her vision from her willing jewels, purple lids laced with heavy lashes giving her the appearance of an odd mannequin.

They reopened as a body took to her side, and two pairs of deep marbles held their collision a second time.

"Hello, Mr. Jones."

"Hello, Miss Braginski…Would you happen to be staying at that hotel there?" A gloved finger came to that great tower, people of all races and creeds pouring from it as a fish from a crystalline stream.

"I am…Are you?"

"Yes…It's nice, isn't it?"

The girl offered a nod, holding her posture more fully and wearing that contented grin. "It's very nice. My room has a huge window inside it, so I can see the whole world."

"Sounds like quite the view."

Her teeth were given to that enchanting configuration, her head leaning back once again. "Oh, Mr. Jones…I can't tell you how nice it is to be outside."

"You don't have to. I'm enjoying it myself."

Anya regarded her company with those eyes so full of curiosity and then turned to her joyous red boots for advice. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Well…Where were you last night?"

"Why? Are you a secret detective?" Obviously, those words were set inside that garden of air only to frolic.

"Oh, no…I was curious. You see, I was looking for you because I had a question about the hammer game. I started to play yesterday and I was wondering if twelve hits was a good number to complete before passing out."

Alfred laughed loudly and Anya twisted her mouth into a happy line, trying to feign seriousness to the best of her abilities.

"Well, it's a great number to start with, but if you want the gold, you'll have to get at least fifty hits. That's the qualifying number for the Olympics."

"_Fifty?! _Did I hear you correctly? That seems like a lot now that I've began to play."

"It is! My own personal record was about thirty-one, I think. I'm not sure; actually. At that point I was getting a little dizzy. But it was quite a few knocks."

Either of them held joy inside their stomachs.

"It's a shame my father doesn't approve of me playing. I actually think he'd be fairly good at it."

"Oh? And why do you think that?"

"Because you could hit him in the head with a hammer all day long and he wouldn't feel a thing."

An even louder interjection from the blond man.

"And I would know! I have!"

Seconds were taken for calm to wash over that American's expression, those cheeks illuminated and those mounds blissful. "How many times did you hit him before he passed out?"

"He didn't. I had to give up because my arm was tired. But at least two hundred."

"Wow! It looks like I might have to give up a few metals. That sort of 'talent' is difficult to find."

Either shared their inner bliss.

"So…Where did you go off to? You haven't told me yet." Anya had not forgotten her inquiry.

"Mmm. Well, nowhere. I stayed in my room and watched Italian soap operas all night until I fell asleep."

"What? _That's_ what you did? I don't believe you."

"No; really! I did!"

"But I thought you had to go to dinner."

"No…Granted, you're supposed to. But you won't get into any trouble if you don't."

"Really?" Anya crossed her arms and held deep furrows inside her brows. "Well now I'm upset."

"Why?"

"Because I could have been sleeping! Instead I had to-Ah! I'm so frustrated, I can't even speak English!" Her accent had grown somewhat thicker. "You know? It's stupid!"

"It's very stupid. Which is exactly why I didn't go. Because if I went, I couldn't speak English either."

"Oh, stop!" A tear born of her amusement was stolen from that purple frame. "Well, what language would you speak if you couldn't speak English?"

"Hmm…Probably Chinese." Alfred nodded. "Definitely Chinese."

And the Russian girl acquired her greatest smile. "It's good you didn't go, then. I only know about three words in Chinese."

"Well, it's really good that I didn't go. I know one."

"Which one?"

"Nĭ hăo."

"Well, if that's one word, I only know two."

"Which ones?"

"Nĭ hăo ma?"

Amusement formed as pretty noise.

And that blond man rose inquiry. "How was it last night anyway?"

"Oh, God…It was so boring I thought I would jump out of a window. No one moved from their little…" The word ran from her curious mind.

"Groups?"

"Yes! They stayed with the same people all night. I don't understand it. All of these interesting things to say to one another and no one wants to speak. I did for a while, but…"

"I know. It's boring."

"Yes…" Something was created within that girl's mind. "Oh! I tried to get cake."

"How did it work out?"

"It didn't…My father told me it was stupid to spend money on cake when we could go home and make one."

"But it's cake in Italy."

"That's what I said."

"Well…I guess it's decided."

"What?"

"I'm going to buy you a cake."

"No! You can't buy me a cake!"

"Why not?"

"Because- I've known you for two minutes, and I can't let you get me a cake. No…I would feel bad. Besides, I couldn't pay you back."

"I don't want you to pay me back. I want you to have a cake." A lapse of several seconds. "And now you've known me for three minutes…So let me get you a cake."

"No…"

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes! Come on…It's cake in Italy. How often can you get cake in Italy?"

Anya's lips curled into an uncomfortable mass of bright color, and the American's brow rose.

"Miss Braginski?"

"What?"

"You don't know how persistent I can be."

"I think I do."

"Then let's go pick out a cake. Because if you do indeed know how persistent I can be, then you would know that I'm going to get a cake for you anyway, find out which room you're staying in and then send it to you. You might as well just pick your favorite flavor. And if your father wants to know who gave you a cake, you can just tell him some stupid man insisted on getting something sweet. So how about it?"

"I can't…I promised I wouldn't go too far away, and that I would be back soon."

"Alright. What flavor is your favorite?"

"…Chocolate."

"And what is your room number?"

"306…But please don't bring me anything."

"Too late! I'm going to bring you a cake!" Alfred sprang from the bench and began to run, laughing with boisterous tone the entire process.

"You better not get me anything, you crazy American! I'm going to throw it at you the next time I see you!"

"Good-bye!"

Anya simply hollered, secretly laughing as her breath expired, cheeks lightened by her fluttering heart. She made attempts to silence that bliss ringing against her face and lips, yet could not quell those messages screamed so loudly upon her very flesh.

The shimmering fairy returned to her father, even more brilliant than she had been before, a polished coin bathed in the essence of wondrous sunshine.

Ivan assumed it was her simple presence in Italy, that beautiful city wrapped around either of them as a luxurious fur coat. There was no consideration taken at the prospect that she had met someone charming within those turning streets.

"Anya, why are you so happy?"

"We're in Italy…Are we going back out soon?"

"Yes." That man had just finished dressing and looked particularly sharp. He always dressed in such nice clothing when others beside his kindly daughter were to witness him.

"You look nice, Papa."

"Thank you, Miss Anya." A wallet found sanctuary within the man's pocket. "…Would you like a new dress?"

"No…"

"Come on. You're going to change your mind."

"I know, but I still feel bad asking for anything…Besides, I really like this dress." Long numerals kissed sweetly to her clothed knees. "Red is one of my favorite colors."

"You like very color."

"I know! Especially red."

"Alright, well…When you change your mind, you let me know and I'll buy you a dress."

"Thank you, Papa."

Both Anya and Ivan went into those heavy streets, their arms connected at the elbows and their glances packed with those marvelous sights.

"Papa, can you speak any Italian?"

"…No."

"Well what are we going to do?"

"Walk around and be stupid tourists."

"But I don't want to be stupid…"

"I'm sorry, Miss Anya. You'll have to be stupid for a few hours…But you're cute, so it's alright."

"Cute _and_ stupid?' You're letting me do a lot today, Papa."

A kiss descended upon her forehead. "I know."

The man and his daughter progressed along those roads and grinned to one another, simply happy to be somewhere so new and rich in beauty.

And just as predicted, they returned to their hotel room with a plastic bag brimming with pretty fabric, this edition a long and pleasant garment soaked in a pure blue sky.

Anya placed her new article against that temporary bed and came closer to that lurid window, finding a pink box upon that miniature table taking its residence so near to brilliant glass. A string was wrapped around it and divided the package into quadrants, tied with a petit bow upon that flat visage, which fingers promptly tore into oblivion.

"What is that?" Her father closed the door.

"It looks like some kind of gift…"

The lid was torn from that paper chest and allowed the innards to that gorgeous nymph, who tried within her greatest ability to be surprised.

It was a luscious cake, three layers and rich chocolate, complete with dark sprinkles and well formed dollops and handsome frosting. There was no note that came with that luxurious gift, but there needn't be one. Anya knew who had sent that delectable confection.

And she would throw it at him. There was certainty that the sender's idiotic blond head was doused in a layer of delicious chocolate.

Ivan came nearer and placed his fingers directly in the center of that beauty, allowing it between his lips and regarding his daughter.

"Papa! You made it ugly!"

"Oh, shush. It still tastes the same…Who told you they would send you a cake?"

"No one…" Eyes sunk well into that first layer of fudge. "Do you think someone heard us speaking last night? We're all staying at the same hotel, so…It likely wouldn't be so difficult to find out where we are."

"Maybe…Unless you somehow managed a secret boyfriend."

"No boyfriends. Just free sweets."

Ivan allowed his suspicions to dust and attempted to submerge that destructive finger into that damaged and delectable flesh. Anya caught his wrist. "Please…I'll get you a plate. Then you can stick your finger into your slice all day long. But I want a piece too."

She was donated a kiss before she went away to fetch two plates.

Ivan afflicted that obnoxious gift with all his considerations and thought of that Ukrainian woman…Perhaps seeing Anya so grown up made her regret all her decisions. He had found Katya crying near the restrooms late the night before, but he could not find any decent words inside his throat. Their eyes met and he simply continued walking.

That man had noticed how closely that girl's mother had followed her, unable to gather enough courage to speak about more than trivial matters, and lacking the resolve to leave her when she was so very near.

More of that shattered frosting was allotted to his tongue, and he tried to recall the feelings of that broken woman in regards to chocolate cake.

He knew it was that bright eyed girl's most favored flavor.

Anya returned with a pair of fresh plates and silverware, placing hat set upon the table and giving her father a steady smack upon the chest, witnessing his finger tip inside his mouth and another weld upon that once smooth surface.

"Papa!"

"It's good!"

"I know, but you're contaminating my cake!"

"_Your_ cake?"

"_Our _cake…"

"Why do you think it's your cake?"

"Because I'm stupid and cute. Don't stupid cuties always get free things?" Anya dipped her finger into that mess of frosting and granted her father a wide smile.

"_No!_ You're contaminating my cake!" Ivan imitated his daughter's voice and wrapped his arms around her, either of them laughing in loud tones.

"But it's good!"

When the cake was finally cut, two slices where produced, one large portion containing all of those horrid scars and a smaller without much imperfection. The pair sat at their table and ate their shares while looking out into that revolving plain, their thoughts toward the senders of that fantastic rarity, Anya knowing and Ivan trying to know.

Regardless, they relaxed the rest of those honey coded hours, far too calm to be anxious about such seemingly trivial desserts. The princess and the king were far too occupied with their dreams.


	14. Chapter 14

Anya did not see that American man for the rest of her stay in Italy, allowing her rushing blood to sober. Guilt was injected into her flesh for even feeling that bit of reckless admiration towards the one she was never supposed to meet.

Her father would not approve, and it was truly a stupid scenario anyway. She was the daughter of Ivan Braginski; not any common girl with those regular freedoms. Kind words regarding those capitalist pigs were not allowed inside her mouth, and if they were found as wretched cavities, Ivan would certainly tear them out and hide them away.

Still, there was desire to share that wondrous cake with him, because despite his own assumed opinions and assigned dislikes, he was sweet to her…

So Anya went home beside her father, that delectable gone and her closure stolen away by a cruel situation.

But as most things, she simply accepted it and buried her face deep within her books.

And events drifted back to the way there were, to the mundane; to the Russian.

Her cigarettes tasted bland.

But she continued to smoke them until their flavor returned while more pages of that lengthily story passed her kind sapphire eyes, her feet aching within the snow.

The walk seemed far longer than she thought it was…

Her father did not take his eyes from her, not because he was suspicious of her activity; no, he knew she was a good and benevolent girl, but because he simply wanted to know what she planned to do with all her talent and intelligence. Ivan was willing to assist that shimmering creature in any way he was able, but she did not seem to desire any set path, even though she did take great pleasure in language.

And the subject noticed those stares, bit did not raise her voice against them; only wondered why she had earned such a heavy attention.

Finally, she simply sat before him after a tedious day of school, placing her bag near those favored boots and the book upon the table, looking on with curious eyes full of honey. There was always discomfort at the confrontation of the man who had taken such immediate care of her, and she knew to place her inquiries correctly so her words would not hold spears when they were truly made of easy parchment.

"Hello, Miss Anya."

"Hello, Papa."

"…Is there something bothering you?"

"Well, no. Not really. I was curious why you've been looking at me so often…have I done something wrong?"

"No, no; of course not. You've been just fine."

"Oh, alright…"

"Well…" Ivan glanced down at his freshly marked papers and then set his vision back upon his daughter with intertwining numerals and a mouth brimming with words he did not know how to order. "I'm a little worried about you."

"Why?"

"…You need a job."

"Papa, don't worry about me. I'll find something to do."

"I know you will, but I'm still concerned; it's my duty…How would you feel about working with me?"

"What? Do you mean as…a career?"

"Well, yes. If you'd like."

"But…"

"I know…Just think about it. You could be my assistant. You don't even have to work every day…" Ivan devoured that disappointed look, searching for a dim light within that consuming darkness. It was as digging for gold inside a pile of thickened soot.

"Would I have to live here?"

"Well, no. Not if you'd like to."

"Papa…I'd like to live my own life. Who would want a girl who still lives at home with her father? _And got a job from him? _I want to see the world…"

"But you can. That's exactly what I'm paid to do."

"You're paid to read papers with tiny print and leave your daughter alone…I want to live somewhere new for a while." Her voice grew dead and miniscule. "Maybe speak English more…I want to get rid of my accent."

"Why do you want to get rid of your accent?"

"Because, it's ugly…I want to sound normal."

"You do sound normal."

"_For being Russian._ Everyone who hears me speak will have automatic opinions about me that might not even be true." _They see you._ "I don't want people to think bad things of me when they've barely met me. And I don't want them to assume that I think badly of them. And perhaps I do, but it's not fair that it would just be assumed."

"Life isn't fair."

"That doesn't mean it can't be sometimes."

"…Anna, where do you want to live?"

"I don't know yet…Somewhere."

"You do live _somewhere._ Where else do you want to live?" The man's voice grew in tension, and that lovely girl could not carry the boulder her father had placed against her shoulders. She was cracking beneath the weight of persistence, as a sunflower inside a lightless basement.

"Papa, I don't know yet."

"Bullshit. Tell me where you want to live."

"New York! I want to go to New York and get the hell out of here!" Naturally, that pressured vase shattered.

"Don't you shout at me, Anna Braginski!" Ivan stood. "I won't tolerate it!"

There was quiet churning inside her chest.

"Tell me why you want to live in New York."

There wasn't an immediate response, only a lost gaze diverted to that battered table top. "You're upset with me."

"I will be if you don't give me your reasons."

"I-" Those nervous jewels met with the man who placed them against the wearer's visage. "I want to see it for myself. I'm supposed to hate that entire country, but…I'll decide when I can get my own opinion. It's not right to hate something you know hardly anything about. It makes you seem stupid and uneducated, and I'd really like to think I'm neither of those things. So that's why; it's important to live somewhere new for a while. I can't know what America if like if I just sit here and read about it, hear about it from you and the teachers and all the others who decided to hate it."

"You can't decide to hate something. You simply _do._"

"But did you try not to hate it? Did you look at both the good and the bad? Or did you just listen to everything wrong? It's so easy to hate, Papa. And I don't want to hate. I'm no good at it." There was a lengthily time overpopulated with thoughtful attention. "How would you feel if someone saw you, listened to your accent and decided on the spot to hate you; without even asking you hardly any questions beside your name?"

"That seems to happen a lot, Anna."

"Do you enjoy it?"

Ivan did not answer.

"Of course you don't. No one does. So I'm not going to, because I wouldn't want the same treatment from someone else. It's not right. People can be bad, but how will you know who is and who isn't if you don't even try to know them outside your own thoughts? Spending all your time hating a certain group of people because you heard a few bad things about them is absolutely _stupid._ What about the good things? It's not all black and white. The world is grey. So that's why I want to go. I need to know for myself; not to be told who I should love or detest. And I can't do that by sitting here."

Again, seconds born into the rough environment of stillness.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you. I love you, Papa."

Finally, a sigh was released from that great chest. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Put me inside a box and ship me away." There was a crinkled red smile against her mouth. "But I'll find someone to mail me back. Maybe they'll wrap me up in bubble wrap and I'll have something to do on the way home."

"Oh, Anna." A kiss was placed against that brow as hands found a set of blossoming cheeks. "You really have to tell me what I'm going to do with you."

"I don't know, Papa." A bit of that gorgeous tress found rest behind her ear. "I'll think about working with you…For a little while."

Ivan contained only a stomach of writhing concern for his little girl, who he desperately did not want hurt. The love of his daughter was vast enough to swallow his still pounding heart.

"Please don't run away from me…"

"I'm not running."

"Please don't go."

"I can't stay home all my life."

The worried father only played with those ashen follicles shimmering with such beauty.

"Please don't go."

"Papa…"

_You're all I have. _

Finally, Anya took her father's needy hands with gentle fingers and wrapped her arms around him, knowing she cut away his heart and tore it into exact and implacable bits, those fragments turning into ugly and mocking ash, and all too impossible to piece back into its original jewel.

Ivan held her and did wish to let go.


	15. Chapter 15

Anya sat upon those church's steps and turned another page of that expansive book, completing her third cigarette. The mark was set to lie amongst those pages and stowed inside her welcoming bag, having grown cold within the ice.

She had thought heavily of the proposal her father had given her, those sapphires constantly welling with an abundance of thought, as wine spouting from a majestic fountain. Her attention fell upon that dull sky, wishing for sun after being buried beneath oppressive snow so many months. She desired to flaunt those golden yellow petals and shine in all her brilliance.

The girl sighed, leaning against her palms and crinkling her scarlet lips into a confused line, wishing for a moment that she indeed could be a stupid child, happy with remaining some place for so many years and doing nothing but marrying and producing two or three children. Perhaps she would not even be so distraught when her husband brought her sorrow and boredom befell her vision for those hungry and begging mouths.

She did not have to be like the women she read about, even though her personality was something as a vine, unable to die and unable to kept within a cage. She would only grow around that unfortunate container and eventually overthrow it.

Anya was simply too lively for her own life.

There was yet another expanse of frustrated breath.

Her body lifted and she claimed her purse from the earth's frigid and unforgiving grasp, turning towards that church's door.

It occurred to her that those feet so clothed in their crimson had not been inside it before, yet so many times had she taken its palm and left warm ashes and corpses upon its fingers. Toes led her near that entrance, and hands pushed open those stubborn and aging portals.

The inside of that odd palace was offered to her sight as rare confections upon a silver platter, and the witness being treated to that bizarre delicacy could do nothing but take in that entire universe, her bottom lip slightly sagging.

No inhabitants took residency inside it, yet the floors and walls and colored glass were something immaculate, dust unable to claim purchase upon those instances of inorganic flesh.

The door was shut behind that Russian girl and she waded in further, suddenly experiencing fire within her blood. Dyed light kissed to her cheeks and she moved towards the front of that abandoned structure, beams seeming to grow livelier with each clap of her boot.

And Anya stood, dressed in all those gorgeous rays, her arms spreading in a moment of girlish foolishness. It was as though the light washing her was even brighter than the addition residing outside, even though that tinted surface was afflicted by the same luminescence that fought through those bitter clouds.

Perhaps they had shifted.

For a moment, Anya sat against one of those benches and regarded all of those emptied pockets, no bibles left of books of those little hymns. Everything had gone accept the stone and glass; God's house had been emptied.

And for a moment, Anya's heart wept for the abandonment of such an edifice; how so few had wished to know of the things that institution could teach.

She was not of any particular religion herself, yet she wished to know of all things. The lack of knowledge brought grey to her shimmering garden and white against that brilliant canvas.

Anya leaned back upon that bench and allowed her body to slip against its supportive frame, laying upon that polished wood and allotting her legs to lap against that edge.

A heart saturated within her thoughts regarding her father.

She loved him, she truly did.

Yet, sometimes he became something so overbearing and utterly protective, weighing against her back as a relentless boulder. Those lovely and fragile wings churned beneath all that strength and love and caring, kept so neatly upon the sol of his boot, and there was nothing her form could complete except for the silence screams that tore from her elegant lips.

Sadness found an easy inhabitance within her belly as she thought of that empire of bitterness he ruled over.

Ivan adored her and Anya knew he did, but that did not change his angry blood or that great pile of dreams he had thrown into her arms, each one of those futures a great and steep force, and just as undesired.

It was unfortunate that she felt the shackles leaving bruises against her flesh.

For the third instance, Anya sighed, brows leaning upon her sapphires beneath the unending force of her fortunes and her misfortunes.

Perhaps to travel, she would take that position her father had offered her with such kind and expecting hands. There was always the ability to go somewhere new within that occupation, even though she wished originally to work at the movie theatres.

She was anticipating the free tickets…

But Ivan was always too lost in that great forest of obligation to accompany her anyway.

At least if she worked for him, they would have more time together, and she could attend those meetings, despite their boring elements. There would be more time with that man she loved so dearly, even if he had accidentally stepped upon those glowing wings with expectation.

Those lovely eyes closed and the owner captured a steep breath.

Yes…She would accept, knowing that her own clumsy feet had trampled upon her father's poor and broken heart.

Anya came home that day, a fragment of her wondrous dream sold to restore Ivan's pride.

When her presence graced that silent house, she found her father asleep within that ancient chair, mouth gaping slightly and miniscule snores floating from his progressing and retreating chest. Numerous papers were kept within his hands, sloppy signature conquering only a few.

The girl stood at his side and laid a kiss against that tired brow, opening that identical pair of azure marbles, which bonded with hers in great haste.

"Papa, why don't you lie in your bed? You're going to hurt your back."

"Because…" Ivan stretched as far as that possessive chair would allow. "I'm not even supposed to be asleep…So I wasn't."

"I don't care if you want to take a rest." Another one of those amorous presses and a second mark of crimson against the man's pallid flesh. "I just don't want you to hurt yourself."

"I won't." The man regarded the clock held against the wall, soft ticking arising from its circular figure. "Did you just come home? It's late…"

"Yes. I had to take some thinking time."

"What were you thinking about?"

"The job you offered me. I'd like to do it, just to see what it's like…But if I don't enjoy it, please don't make me do it."

"Of course not!" That large man came to his feet as a small child from bed in the midst of Christmas morning and embraced his daughter, afflicting either of her cheeks with blissful tinges of his undying affection. "No, no…I won't make you do anything. I'm happy you decided to give it a try." Another kiss. "Thank you, Anna. You're such a sweet girl."

"Thank you, Papa."

Anya's thin body was held to an even closer proximity, the man possessing it seeming to warm as a wondrous day in summer. "Let me make you a snack; whatever you like."

"Can I have a banana?"

"Of course you can have a banana!" Lips embellished her rouge. "You can have an entire chicken! Whatever you like…"

Either knew damn well there not an entire chicken or a single banana.

"Papa, you're such a sucker." A hand came to rest upon that man's cheek.

"I know…I love you too much. But let me make you something. You're probably hungry."

"Well, alright…But please don't worry too much about me. I'm not _that_ hungry."

Ivan simply left a kiss to bloom upon his angel's forehead, not having been in such euphoria in what felt like months.

And Anya laughed at him, amused when her father contained such radiating joy. It was not often one would spot such loud bliss coursing through his veins.

That cutlet of her exalted dream and her independence was far worth what the girl had sold it for. She never liked to see her loving Papa in such an upset. There was always a fresh helping of worry boiling within his stomach, that feeling as a parasite and devouring the man who so housed its precious life and Anya hated to watch his descent into something dour.

"I love you…"

"I love you too, Anya."


	16. Chapter 16

Weeks had past and once again, and Anya found herself packing her bags to go to another meeting. She had done here job in bits, organizing papers while balancing her schooling as if she was attempting to measure out exact amounts of salt on either side of a silver scale, the weights shifting seeming to be far beyond her meager control, even though her father had given her no more than she could handle; she still found her arms well occupied.

But she did not seem to mind, nor complain.

And now that Anya had taken that apprenticeship, her presence was a requirement and it did not bring her any form of surprise. She had anticipated it; she wanted to go.

Despite all her boring and new obligations set upon her palms, she rather enjoyed taking near to a week from her even more mundane schooling to waltz around those gorgeous cities as if they were hers, lied out as fantastic delicacies upon the platter she was never truly able to sample from before. That awful trip was certainly a pain, but it was worth those great sights and beautiful languages. Eyes devoured them as if they were the most luxurious of confections.

Anya stowed her finest dresses away, selecting the loudest hues and neutral pantyhose, (which seemed too dark for her actual skin.) And her customary red boots. She always possessed her boots.

And they made their way away from Russia.

This meeting was set within Germany, and that sudden foreigner found herself well excited, despite the fact that her sleep was interrupted and her flight was long and hellish.

She was at least allowed a day of wondrous rest before that meeting arrived as a boulder against her feet, and she did not look forwards to that section of her miniature and shortened vacation.

For the very purpose of her alien existence, Anya was wrapped in black fabric, her powers written in dour hues, eyelids kept grey and liner the same shade as coal. Those lips were painted in a responsible berry and the wearer of all those boring splashes felt as though she was requested at a funeral of someone dearly important.

"Anya, please tell me you brought another pair of shoes.

"Nope. Just my boots." Her feet resided so warmly inside those battered jewels. "I think they bring a lot to this outfit; they spice it up, don't you think?"

"No, Anna. You have to look respectful…You actually have a job now. So pay attention, it's very important."

"I know, Papa. And I do…Why can't I give all my attention in spiffy boots?"

"Because…"

"That's not a very good answer."

Ivan sighed heavily, his neck collapsing and his eyes closing beneath the weight of those brows. "It's like talking to brick wall!"

"A brick wall with great boots."

Either held private bliss.

"Papa, how long will the meeting be today?"

"About…Two hours, if everything goes well."

"_Two hours?"_

"_Oh no! _Not _two hours! _What are we going to do? We have to spend two hours _in a meeting?_ _Oh god!_ The agony!"

"That's not funny!"Her lips were curling.

"Mmm-hmm. I think you can survive, Miss Anya. Just make sure that you don't fall asleep. Remember, you're actually getting paid now."

"I know, but two hours seems like a long time to talk about nothing."

"We're not talking about nothing…" Ivan slipped on his shoes and regarded his darling girl. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

"Alright; let's get going then."

Anya and Ivan were greeted with the same faces and same set of halls they had seen in Italy, everything matching almost as a replica except for the location they all stood inside.

And again, the fairy queen found herself compiled into the same group she had been beforehand, plastered smiles probing into her honest sapphires while their faux words revolved around her head as an angered swarm of bees, never truly attacking or making ugly bruises against her lily flesh, but they were well threatening.

There was a curl of those darkened lips, yet the girl was she bound inside a vest of cruel needles. Her mouth wanted to converse in comfort, but she wore the same mask the others utilized so well, her fingers skinning away fragments of her petals while she nodded and grinned. They were too finicky to be joyous, but that was the emotion she felt obligated to strew about her face, left so sloppily and in wild amounts by the master artist who had placed them at their positions.

When the subject moved from her own species, good-byes were given and those eager feet led her away. Anya was determined to explore Germany in what small ways she could.

And her body was placed amongst that pleasant chill within the garden, where she had found friendship previously.

It was early in the morning, however the light radiated through that magnificent sky without single interruption, as if that glow had been afflicted upon a polished diamond, it was brilliant with earned audacity. Gorgeous shadows were left all about the ground and buildings, leaving the nymph with the feeling she had stepped into a painting. She glanced to a bench close to a great window, allotting light into that dull edifice, and a lovely couple was found upon it, smoking identical pairs of cigarettes. Without her possessive worry churning inside her stomach, she approached, standing before them a few seconds and waiting for their eyes to find her, as an Easter egg hidden within bear grass.

The woman with such kind emeralds smiled to her, while that man read her as a book behind those shining spectacles, deep blue eyes drowning in the inquiries of an inquisitive being. Either were fairly attractive, sitting so comfortably at such a proximity; it was as though the pair was bonded at the soul, yet divided into separate vessels, meant only to illuminate their area together.

"Hello." The man was first to give voice. "Can we help you with something?" Words arrived in slightly accented English, and one could easily tell that his first communication spilled in German.

"Oh…Would you mind if I borrowed one of your cigarettes?"

"Of course you can!" The woman went into her purse, that great and flowing cascade of wondrous curl collapsing against her shoulder, and retrieved that well sought pack, allowing a single addition into the tall girl's hand. Flame was donated by the man and politely, she lit her tobacco, returning that portable fire to the one who had lent it to her.

"Thank you. I don't have my own with me at the moment."

"That's alright. We don't mind." The woman branded her opposite's cheek and he smiled to her, well possessed by his affection. She was left with a honeyed touch as well.

"You're so sweet together…" A true smile broke upon Anya's face. "Where are either of you from?"

"I'm from Austria and Mrs. Edelstein is from Hungary."

"Roderich…You know we're not married."

The one placed beneath question simply kissed the woman upon the mouth and Anya projected her laughter.

"Anyhow…" The Austrian gave that Russian girl his unfettered attention, an arm surrounding his blushing 'wife'. "I should introduce myself. I'm Roderich."

"And I'm Elizaveta."

"Oh, I'm Anya."

"It's nice to meet you." Elizaveta wore a grin herself. "Where are you from, Anya?"

"From…Russia. I'm Ivan's daughter." Those syllables came with a certain kind of burn as acidic vomit.

"Ah…From Russia." There was a long and awkward silence, and those gorgeous and lush eyes so filled with the woman's light came to the blades of grass beneath her own pair of boots. There were a thousand words festering inside that Hungarian's mouth, but she could not expel even a fragment of one.

The Austrian held her hand with more conviction.

"Well, uh-Thank you for the cigarette. Have a nice day…" Anya walked away before any reply could be placed into production. Regret came for even allowing her sols to drag her towards that innocent pair.

Her prize was taken, and she sat against an unoccupied bench.

The roll of tobacco had been finished and Anya crushed it beneath her boot, wishing she had that wondrous brush of fate to paint her skin any other color and could trade her voice for another. Those marbles so heavily encrusted upon her visage even felt the great compulsion to leave her and roll away within that field of simple green, and through those emptied sockets her mind grew in abundance.

The doors at her side opened and a small group poured from it, an Englishman and that very American walking side by side, the thickly browed addition issuing complaints about something or other and his counterpart simply flaunting that generous and undying grin. Attentions adhered to the Russian girl in all her quiet misery, who suddenly was drown in the depths of agonizing insecurity.

"Hello, Miss Braginski."

"Hello, Mr. Jones." The air of regular bliss had faded and the sunflower was left with dying petals.

"Arthur, I'm going to sit down for a moment."

There was a horrendous and loud sigh. "What's the matter with you?" Arthur drew nearer to the American's intimacy and gave him message only intended for his ear. "Ivan's going to have your balls the moment you get close to her. You be careful. I know how you are."

There was an even wider smile and the man holding it turned towards that confused young woman. "I'll meet up with you later, Arthur."

"Alright. Have fun getting decapitated."

And as the British man progressed in his direction, the blond wrapped in such casual attire took assignment next to that troubled beauty, offering his usual sunshine as if that sweet glow was contained within a box of expensive chocolates.

"Did you like your cake?"

"Yes…I was going to throw it at you, but then I didn't see you. It was good. I liked it."

"I'm glad you did." Those lips formed into their normal conspiracy, begging for the same sort of movement to affect that distraught nymph. "Is there something wrong?"

"Well…" Those blond brows dropped and her mouth converted to an uncomfortable line beneath her nose. "Do you see those two people talking over there?" Anya pointed her head towards that Austrian and his Hungarian.

"Roderich and Elizaveta?"

A solemn nod.

"What about them?"

"I think I've upset them…The woman, at least."

"Why? They don't look all too upset."

"I asked them for a cigarette and when we began to speak, I told them I was Russian…And then she looked away from me like she didn't have anything to say…Like I insulted her or said something rude. But I didn't mean to…I liked her from just speaking with her a few moments." Again, those colored petals contracted into that oddly figured ball. "It's not my fault I'm Russian. I was nice…" Those thoughtful eyes welled inside their silent contemplations. "Do you hate me?"

"No…I bought you a cake. If I hated you, why would I do anything like that?"

"I don't know…"

Alfred gave attention to his mind as his glasses kissed that peaceful sky with such soft curiosity. "You're right; it's not your fault that you're Russian." And that man stood, holding his hand out to that bothered soul.

"What are you doing?"

There was only another one of those grins, so full of thoughts and plans and secrets. It was almost as looking at a complex plan for horrid war beneath fogged glass. One could only make out a few of those ghastly intentions.

"What kind of answer is that?" There was still pessimistic upset conquering her churning stomach.

"It's not." His gloved hand came even further out to her, as though he was making her decision even more facile. "If you want to know what I'm doing, why don't you take my hand and find out?"

With a cautious mind, Anya gently connected their palms, something of a spark igniting between their appendages. That tall creature came to her feet and regarded that strange man who seemed to have such an iron grasp upon her nervous core.

And the American began to move towards that pair sitting so contently across that beautiful expanse of triumphant green, phalanges stabbing through the snow so dominated it.

"No! No! No!" That refusal came in Russian and the girl tried to turn back. "I know what you're going to do. I'm not going over there. I'm just going to sit on that bench. You can do whatever _you_ like to."

"Come on, Miss Braginski."

"_No!_ I really can't go over there."

"Why not? Your legs work, right?"

"No-! It's-"

"Well, if your legs don't work, I'll carry you."

"You _can't_ carry me!"

Alfred simply regarded her as though all of that sanity had drained with her worried protests.

"I'm too big. Besides, you're not allowed to. "

"Alright. I'll get permission. Can I carry you?"

"No!"

"What?"

"_No!_"

After that stubborn personage was left with that American grin, she was swept from her obstinate feet and carried away, yelling the entire duration of that short trip and attracted all the unwanted attention she was so afraid of taking.

And that implacable doll was set before the pair she had spoken to only moments previously, her face bright as a rose in the midst of spring and her dress somewhat disheveled. Alfred kindly adjusted her garments and gave that strong pair of eyes to the Austrian and the Hungarian.

"Alfred, what are you doing?"

"I'm not doing anything accept asking you a question." The blond arranged his jacket and once again gave regard to the lost set. "Has Miss Braginski offended either of you?"

"What?"

"Oh, no…" Elizaveta stood, her height a far cry from the Russian girl's. "No, no. Don't worry about it. I'm sorry." Anya was contained inside a warm embrace in which she promptly returned. "You're a nice girl."

And with her lips pursed into a dainty smile, the fairy's arms were allowed with more conviction to the woman she did not know, feeling as though she had committed an even larger infraction that was actually done, that ridiculous American being her accomplice.

"Thank you…" Anya could only blush.

And when they separated, The Hungarian took to the side of her loving Austrian and the blond stole away that innocent hand.

"Mr. Jones…Why did you do that?"

"Because it would have bothered you all day, wouldn't it? Elizaveta is a sweetheart. I doubt she would have been truly upset with you. And I doubt that you actually said anything that offended her. So problem solved. You got a hug out of it, didn't you?"

"Well…yes."

"See? There's nothing to be upset about."

"…How did you pick me up?"

"I used my arms."

"I know, but…I'm the same height as you are…at least close."

"So?"

"So…Wasn't I heavy?"

"Nope."

"But-"

"Nope."

"Mr.-"

"Nope."

"_Shut up!_"

Alfred laughed and Anya tried not to.

"Just…Whatever. You're annoying."

"I know."

"Why are you holding my hand?"

"I'm annoying. It's all part of my horrible plan to get on your nerves."

"Well…It's not. You have to work on your annoying skills, Mr. Jones."

"You can call me Alfred, if you want to."

"Alright…You can call me Anya." And that lovely thing looked to her boots for counsel a few healthy seconds, then back to the personage causing her such fever. "Alfred?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to be friends?"

"Sure. Are we allowed to be?"

"Well, are you allowed to pick me up and feed me cake and hold my hand?"

"Probably not."

"But you did anyway."

There was nothing placed inside that blond man's mouth, only a grin had the aptitude to shape it, leaving the girl with another sort of heart attack.

"Then we should be friends."

Finally, they came to that empty seat and fell upon it, hands still well intertwined as comfortable ribbon inside an extensive braid. Their places were the same as they were before and the American claimed his palm back, only to have it stole another time by that curious girl. The glove was removed with a holy sort of caution, as if she was touching that sparkling and golden grail that had been sought after so many times in pretty fantasies. That worn bit of leather was placed upon her lap and could be claimed at anytime, but Alfred seemed perfectly content with her sweetened touch, tending to his flesh with such soft attention.

That tanned appendage was held before her as a specimen, picked up as the observer mauled over those battered knuckles and small calluses.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm checking you out." And that painted smile left in genuine colors changed the configuration of her lips. "That's the right expression, isn't it?"

"It could be."

"Alright, well…I'm checking you out. What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. Are you going to beat me up?"

Anya nodded, squinting lovely eyes and crunching her orifice into a little ball of berry red; she tried to look threatening but her visage was laughable, almost as though she had walked straight from a terrible spaghetti western. "Maybe I will. You better be careful. I'm watching you."

"Well, if you're going to be so threatening, maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore. I don't want to end up dead in a dumpster somewhere."

When the man tried to rise, that faux gangster simply yanked him back into his place, continuing to examine those fingers Alfred had not lent her in the first instance. Finally, that palm was set upon his lap, and its casing had been returned. "I'm not watching you anymore."

"So I won't end up in dumpster somewhere?"

"No…Well, maybe. You could end up in a dumpster, but…I won't be the one to put you inside it."

"That's reassuring."

Anya simply grinned, trying to murder that wondrous twist.

"Well, now that I know you won't kill me, how have you been? Did Ivan make you come back again?"

"…Sort of. My father offered me a job as his assistant, and I agreed to it. He can leave me alone and I can make a little money; it's not a bad deal. But now I have to come with these meetings with him so I'm aware of what's going on, which isn't so bad either, I guess. I'm going outside tomorrow to run around. And I'm not going to wear black while doing it."

"What color are you going to wear?"

"I was thinking about blue of green, maybe red. What do you think?"

"Hmm…I think you should wear orange."

"Orange? I don't think I own an orange dress."

"Well, then I suppose you should wear red. But if you wanted to wear blue or green, that would be fine too."

The American was given a nod. "I think I'll wear red."

There was a moment of that sugared silence filled with the American's calculations. "Anya. Do you ever wear pants?"

"Pants? No…I always have a dress."

"Well, why?"

"I don't know. I guess…I feel like I'm not supposed to wear pants. I just wore dresses when I was small, so maybe I didn't realize I could…How would I look in pants?"

"Probably good."

"Maybe I'll find a pair…"

Alfred did not say anything more.

"How have you been doing lately, Alfred?"

"I've been busy, but I've been fine. Better than bad. I've wanted to just relax lately, but…"

"You've been busy?"

"Yes."

"I've been busy too…You know, I wanted to work at the movies. I don't mind this job so far but now that I've started working I don't have time to go see films any longer. And that was one of my favorite things to do."

"I love movies."

"Yeah! Do you go to movies a lot?"

There was another nod, serious as though they were speaking of a sacred rule or an exalted relative. "On my free time, I do."

"Do you live close to a big theater, or a little theater?"

"A big one…It's really nice too."

"Oh…I live closer to a smaller theater, but it's nice as well. That's part of the reason why I wanted to work there, because it's close to my home. But that's alright."

"Well, what's the reason that you decided to take this job?"

"Papa was miserable when I told him I wanted to live in New York. I had to. I know that he can be a pain sometimes, but he loved me, and he's always taken care of me, even when it meant he had to lose something. I'm not going to do this forever, but I should give it a try, for him." There were seconds born into the static of weighty thought. "When I told him, he asked me not to go…I feel horrible."

"You shouldn't feel horrible. You're not going to leave him forever are you?"

"No, of course not…I just want to live in another part of the world."

"Well…It seems to me like he wants you around for the rest of your life. It wouldn't matter if you were across the ocean or next door. You're his little girl. There's not much you can do to change that."

"I know, and it's true. But seeing him so sad…I still felt terrible. Besides, you're just saying that because you're Alfred and he's Ivan."

"Well, you're just saying that because you're Anya. Anyone could say that about anyone else. Of course you would say the things you would say. That's just like saying cake is cake and bananas are bananas. You're silly. And it doesn't make me wrong."

"…_What?_"

Alfred raised his brow and regarded his counterpart long ticks.

"...No, no. I think I understand. Well…" The Russian girl thought a heavy moment. "He's just going to have to accept the fact that I'm almost an adult. I can't remain home forever."

"Of course not."

Anya nodded as her lips receded, thought pouring into her mind almost as lost knowledge springing suddenly back into the memory of an old woman. "You're right! I shouldn't feel bad for wanting to see the world! _That's normal!_ He can't keep me forever, no matter what I decide to do! I haven't even kissed a boy yet because I'm so afraid he's going to scream! Look at me!" She spread her arms. "I am _not_ a vain person, but I _am_ pretty. I shouldn't have to feel guilty because I want the same things everyone else does! It's not my fault that he can't see me for anything more than-_than a baby!_ But I'm not!" Something was said in Russian and the air became so very still.

"Do you feel better?"

A long breath was drawn into those worked lungs. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Well, since you feel better, you don't have to apologize." The American came from his position. "I'm thirsty. Do you want something from the vending machine?"

"Are you coming back or do you want me to go with you?"

"You can do whatever you like."

"Then I'll come with you. But I'm not very thirsty."

And with fresh sodas within their palms, Anya and Alfred remained upon that bench and filled their time left so conveniently free with their laughter and opinions, watching as so many passed them with curious eyes and silent throats. There was an axiomatic affection birthed between them, and either could feel it inside their quick rushing blood, the glances exchanged between those adjacent sapphires screaming phrase mouths could hardly articulate.

Sadness struck as lighting to a post when parting was forced upon their schedules for that boring expanse, yet, that was their duty as well as their fate, bonded so closely to them as the hue residing against their flesh. Occasional attention was paid to the other, as well as small and secretive twists, molding mouths into pleasant shapes once shared in such free air.


	17. Chapter 17

"Papa, why can't I wear brighter colors?"

"Because, it's a formal event. Didn't you see how everyone was dressed the last time?"

"Yes, but why should I be required to be boring? All of my clothes are in good condition, and they're all pretty. I'm not asking to wear something with a hole in it and stains."

"Anna, I said no. You can wear whatever you like for the rest of the time, but right now, I just need you to dress a little classier than you usually do, alright?"

"Fine…But I don't like it."

"I know you don't."

"Well…Good. Should I wear grey, or grey?" The girl looked through her suitcase and pulled from its innards a dour dress, one of two that she owned and the only edition she brought.

"Grey, most definitely."

"I thought you would say that. You know me so well, Papa!" That sad conformation of fabric was held within Anya's colorful hands, nails once again dyed the most obnoxious of hues.

"What is that?"

"What is what?"

"Your nails."

"Oh…Don't you like them? I painted them before we left."

A long duration was required and filled with a great sigh, the man exhibiting all that precious energy seeming to lose years simply by standing amongst that ray of perpetual sunshine with her chipping polish and forced hues. "What am I going to do with you?"

"You can admire my lovely nails."

"Alright, just-please. Get dressed."

That ridiculous nymph smiled to her father and came to him, kissing that frustrated cheek and donating her affections as though they were medicine to his soured stomach. "You love me. You love my nails too. I can see it."

"Yes, but-"

His words were guillotined by those sweet lips pressing to his, and that smuggler of color ran away with her outfit.

And the victim released his air, not utterly of irritation, but a portion of love within that confusing compound as well.

The pair went back to that great hall they had inhabited only hours before and pooled within a sort of ball room, finding a place to sit within all their unhappy little groups and commenced their required and sullen conversations, the girl doing nothing but skinning her napkin once utilized as clothing for those shining articles of silverware.

She did not notice the tap upon her shoulder.

"Anna! Do you want a drink?"

"Oh! What? Umm…Do you have lemonade?" She referred to the waiter who stood as a stealthy warrior behind her, confused at the downpour of those Russian syllables.

"Oh, umm…Lemonade?" She offered another attempt in English.

And there was an affirmative nod.

"Anna, pay attention."

"Sorry, Papa."

"It's alright…" The Ukrainian woman leaned closer to her as if she was willing to tell a secret. "I'm always spacing out. I think I'm okay."

The Russian girl did not have many words to exploit, so she simply thanked her.

There was another one of those silences disabled by the awkwardness of either party, the pair feeling that weighty obligation to speak, but neither capable of choosing that golden question lying beneath that great mound of dense sand.

So the elder woman simply selected granules.

"Anna, how are your grades?"

"Oh, they're fairy good."

"They're perfect." The father provided that interruption.

"That's great! You look a smart girl…Ivan must be proud of you."

"I am."

"Be quiet! I'm talking to Anna." The woman's response was well playful, although it still hit the Russian man as marble to falling glass. There was no evidence of that quake.

The girl in question only felt discomfort, and those eyes once again connected with her mother's.

"I'm sorry…What was your name again?"

"I'm Katya."

The inquirer found that expected pain within her company's visage, that great and accidental stab hidden by a wavering smile and a faux air of serenity.

"I'm sorry. I met so many people last time-oh, gosh…I'm an idiot."

"Oh, no. It's alright. There are a lot of people to remember. And your father would speak about you almost every time we saw him."

"What did he say about me?"

"He would always tell everyone how smart and pretty you are. He began to say such things so often, I thought he was lying but…He was just being modest. I'm glad I finally got to see you." A few razors were found within those softly formed words, yet the girl did not feel their bitter cut; they were intended for the man kept at such a near proximity.

"Oh, goodness…Does everyone know who I am?"

"Well, almost everyone at this table at least knows your name. Some of us were even lucky enough to hold you."

"Did you hold me?"

The woman gave an affirmative nod. "You were a sweet baby…If anyone looked at you they could tell you would be a likable person."

And the adolescent's cheeks filled with rose and that mollified curl inhabited those painted lips.

Another shallow question came into being. "Do you have a boyfriend yet?"

"No…I don't think any innocent young men need to lose their lives yet. Papa would kill either of us."

"You're damn right I would."

"Well, it's a smart decision. Men can be so stupid."

Before any offence could be received from that underlying intent, drinks were placed upon the table and the girl's wondrous and loud fingernails picked away that paper residing upon her straw, leaning forward quite far and taking a sip, a raspberry mark left against that innocent and unsuspecting fogged flesh. Ivan regarded her as a girl who had destroyed all her wit and slowly moved the glass nearer to her as if making a loud point through small action, his mouth stifling laughter and his eyes expressing all the amusement that fatherhood could not allow him.

"Alright?"

"Yes, Papa."

That ridiculous forehead was given a small peck.

"You're silly Miss Anya."

"I know." A drink was taken of that sweet nectar. "It's good. Do you want to try some?"

"No, sweetheart. I'm fine. But thank you."

Anya turned back to that woman who resided so obnoxiously at her side, those opposing eyes constantly watching the life that body had expelled, amazed at how lovely she was, and grateful for that benevolent nature. "Would you like a sip?"

"Oh, no thank you. It's all yours."

Dinner progressed with its normal pushed conversation and the large breasted Ukrainian woman asking her natural myriad of questions, almost as though she was interviewing that lovely company for a crime committed, curious of all the things she had accomplished within her life to lead her to the chair she filled. Naturally, that Russian girl wished to sit quietly for a moment, but she was forced to make polite response in fear of incriminating herself before all those watching eyes and intent ears, and for the sake of her noisy new acquaintance. Anya did not mind placing that mask of utter glow against her cheeks, wearing the visage of a kind and pleasant girl caught within a different title; however she relished the sanctity of her own thoughts, which those curious and pointless probes seemed to rob her of. That peaceful rose had its petals plucked by a thief and she was left with an inside composed of terrible thorns.

When she was finally allowed to roam, she went outside, wishing for the company of a companion who was content with sitting and serenity, yet there was no one awaiting her presence, and the girl did not raise complaint at her solitary occupation.

And with Anya away, Ivan approached Katya, and they found a silent corner to argue in as they had numerous times before.

"Katya, what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm trying to talk with your daughter. Am I not allowed that? I made her."

"No; _I made her._"

"_Really?_ Well _Vanya_, just where are you hiding your womb? The last few times I've seen you've been a man, haven't you?"

"Shut your mouth! You think I don't notice you sitting there and throwing your petty little insults at me? She's not your daughter anymore, so stop sucking up to her. I don't care if you speak. But I don't want you too close."

"Why?" Katya did not even look at the father with those wells so drowning in their spite. "I'm not going to hurt her. I haven't seen her for close to sixteen years. She doesn't know who I am. I'm just another person in your odd little group of false friends."

"Katya-"

"Do you want me to tell her?"

The man stood still.

"I think she should know. I'll respect your decision to keep her from all the information she likely wishes to be aware of; after all, you've only told me about a thousand times that _you're her father_ and I have nothing to do with her. I understand it. You're afraid of letting her get hurt."

No words came into that dagger infested atmosphere until that horrid smoke had been cleared from the battle field.

"I want to see her tomorrow."

"No."

"Why don't you let her pick? She's well old enough to choose for herself."

"What are you going to do if I don't let her pick?"

"Well, I suppose we'll have to find out, won't we?"

"…I'm not going to be black mailed. You certainly won't be visiting with Anna tomorrow, and we both know damn well that you don't have the _gull_ to say anything. Even if you did, you wouldn't. She's not yours."

"_I know!_"

The room grew silent as that knife attempted to cut though those meaningless interjections, and slowly resumed into the conversations that had fallen against that cleaned marble floor, not paying a single droplet of precious attention to that sudden and quick outburst.

"I want to see her. I just want to see her…I won't say a word. I simply want to know her; you can tell her. You can keep it to yourself. I don't care. I only want a few hours with my daughter. Why is that asking so much? You get to see her nearly every day of the year." A few fragments of those old and painful emotions fell against her eyes, those rhinestones set to shimmer beneath a new coat of heavy polish. "I don't. And you know I wanted to be there, but you wouldn't let me in. You're so goddamn overprotective."

"Fine. _I'll ask her_; I'll ask her if she wants to spend a little time with you. But don't be depressed if she says no. We had plans, especially for the rest of this week."

"Fine. _Thank you._"

And they parted, hearts in utter discourse.

Anya sat beneath those dappled stars a great remainder of that social farce, her chin within her palms and her mind pooling with odd thought. Most of those strange troubles were birthed of her own life, and a few even mailed to those gloved American's hands, although the creature of such seemingly insignificant and twisted affections did not know why they were there.

Eventually, the girl went inside from that frosted air and found her father, only to wait for that night to fall to its imminent death.


	18. Chapter 18

Anya awoke to her father sitting upon her bed, fingers stroking through her flowing ashen tresses, blades composed of admiration and her jewels, still so pregnant with their sleep, connected to his.

"Papa, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." A kiss was administered. "Katya is waiting outside. She asked me yesterday id she could spend time with you. What do you want me to tell her?"

That girl rose from her coffin, so ready to take her into eternity and tore the crust from her vision, still keeping all that attention built of sudden irritation against her father's image. "Why does she want to see me?"

"I don't know. But she seems to like you…"

"Can I stay here? Katya is nice, but…She doesn't shut up. Besides, we're supposed to spend the day together, aren't we?"

The Russian man offered a nod to those hungry sapphires.

"Then I don't really want to go out with anyone else. Can you tell her I'm not feeling well? Maybe that I drank too much at the party last night…" Anya smiled and earned yet another one of those amorous touches.

"Alright."

Ivan rose from his place against those marred sheets and traveled through that door. There was a silent click behind him and quiet voices so livid with secret could be detected outside that frame, a miniature and perhaps intense conversation ensued behind that defensive wood, condensed into mumbles.

After a series of dull occurrences, Ivan returned and shut that porthole quietly.

"What did she say?"

"She said she hopes you feel better soon."

"…Now I feel bad."

"Why?" Voices were still well beneath their usual effect, in fear that the seemingly kind woman was still at her post outside those thin walls.

"Because she said something nice and I lied to her. But what did she expect? We hardly know one another."

"I know…Don't feel bad, Miss Anya. Why don't you get dressed? We'll do something fun."

"But what if…"

"Katya sees us? Just tell her you were feeling better."

"Thank you, Papa…"

"Of course."

And remembering that odd and precious pledge, Anya clothed her body in red; that usually passionate color seeming to glow with an excess vigor. Her locks were brushed through and allowed to dangle against her warm shoulder, loud fingernails drifting through that brilliant mass softly. Purple was applied to her lids as well as black liner, lips dyed a rich crimson with those shimmering boots that seemed to accompany her feet within each of those numerous occasions, slipping around her appendages as though they were always meant to take their inhabitance there.

Anya was a beam of scarlet sunshine and she was not afraid to flaunt those wondrous plumes inside their perpetual light.

She came from that bathroom and blinded her father.

"Goodness!"

"What?"

"You're so…"

"Flamboyant? Boisterous? Florid? _Embellished?_" That final word came into life coded in emphasis and rolling inside that odd child's grin. "I know. I'm always like this. Let's go run around."

"You're going to give everyone a migraine."

"So what?" A curl so infested by beaming teeth. "We'll be able to get into areas easier because everyone will be on the floor crying. What's so bad about being first in line?"

"Nothing." Ivan came nearer to that shimmering headache. "Alright. Let's go make Germans angry."

"That's the best kind of German anyway."

Ivan and Anya waded into that sun with their arms connected at the elbows and their gazes converting into starved sponges. Neither could pull their sights from those gorgeous buildings and that lovely sky so littered with clouds.

After walking several expansive moments built of that steady wonder and lost pairs of oceanic eyes, the pair allowed their legs sanctuary upon a park bench they had found, feet sleeping inside that cool grass and their focuses still well dependent upon an azure canvas hovering so loyally above them.

"Anna…"

"Yes?"

"I hate how everyone looks at you."

"How do you mean?"

"Just the way they look at you…You're too pretty. It's breaking my heart."

Another one of those sweet touches connected to the man's vulnerable cheek. "What are you going to do when I get married? You're going to come to my wedding and beat up my husband, and my guests will be enraged."

"No…The man you marry will have to ask me to marry you first. That's the part when I'll beat him up. There won't even be a wedding, so it's nothing to worry about."

"Papa…"

"I'm kidding." A press allotted to the man's company. "But really; don't ever get married. I'll have a heart attack."

Anya held her laughter. "Well, why aren't you marred?"

"Because…"

The listener's rich blue wells were brimming with question as well as amusement.

"Don't look at me that way, crazy girl."

"Then give me a real answer."

"Well…I just never did. I offered to stay with your mother when I found out she was pregnant with you, but she made it clear that she didn't want me around. So I just gave up, since she spent so much energy staying away from me…I would have married her if things went well. But they didn't. And then one day, she showed up at my doorstep and handed you over…After that, that was it. And you were mine."

"If she didn't want you around, then why did she…" The lovely girl could not put an end to her inquiry.

"I don't know, Anna. People do a lot of stupid things. But it doesn't really matter. You're here and I love you…I love you a lot."

"Thank you, Papa…I love you too."

The Russian man kissed that immaculate beam that always kept her shine and wrapped her inside a warm embrace. Despite all that had occurred, she was truly his most valued article, the grail within a deep forest of mire and terrible beasts. There was not a thing he would not complete for her. "I'm glad I have you, Miss Anya."

"I'm glad too…"

And Ivan's words made Anya feel better about being so unwanted by her own mother. She was well aware that her presence was a grave mistake made by two possibly drunken people who would not have been together in the very beginning. Some luminescent stars were not intended, and it caused her heart to ache at that shadowed background so hidden by a great veil of her father's darkened mist. So many of her days were spent drowning in her anger and her jealousy, the girl cursing the sky for not giving her a mother and father and all the amenities that accompanied them. And she was forced to swallow that knowledge so many times, each instance tasting just as bitter as the last thousand gulps. It was as though she was an immortal swallowing cyanide, never to truly die but simply scream inside her excruciating nerves and choke upon her own salvia.

And inside that faux death, she writhed.

"Papa, what was my mother like?"

"She…" Ivan's brows furrowed. "She argued with me a lot. But she was beautiful…And that's really all I can remember."

"That's all?"

"I'm sorry…Like I said, it's no longer important." Another kiss to soothe those savage questions that might very well divulge the identity of that infamous woman.

"…Did you love her?"

"For a short while, yes. I loved her quite strongly. But then we fought…Let's not talk about her any longer. I don't like to think about it. That woman makes me sick."

"Alright…We don't have to talk about her anymore." Anya picked away at those colored nails a moment. "Papa?"

"What is it?"

"I wouldn't be upset if you decided to get a girlfriend…I'm almost old enough to take care of myself anyway."

"No, Anna. I don't really want a girlfriend. Besides, you probably would be bothered. You're just saying that because you don't _think _you would be. The minute I bring any woman through my door, you'd be upset…So I won't. Regardless of what you say."

The lovely creature did not have coherent thought to express, her sweet blades touching to the knuckles of her father's hand.

"Will you be ready to go soon?"

"Yes, Papa. Thank you."

"Of course."

A tinge and two shifting pairs of feet.


	19. Chapter 19

Anya and Ivan had gone home and continued to work as they always had; the girl did not raise even slight protest at all of her small and rather irritating obligations, even though that great sacrifice made solely for her father seemed to place a vaster plain between either of them, their time used for talking devoured by needy papers and sloppy signatures.

The girl would arrive home from school to take a miniscule nap, then complete her homework, and once all of those requirements were placed into the pile of completion, the unorganized pile of incompletion screamed at her, Ivan making it grow with every last document signed.

It was never her own signature to grace those dour canvases. That was not her assignment. However, she did run errands, delivering things and picking things up and moving things into areas and then moving things out of areas. She would follow her father to his office; she would stay home; she would organize; she would alphabetize and she would read- _oh God_, how she hated to read-and after reading she would return to organizing and alphabetizing and completing all other tasks her busy and bleeding fingers were set to, sight drowning in papers and protocol and official documents with seals and crests and names and enough rhetoric to make her mind collapse upon itself. And when it did, she was finally allowed to stop, her father containing nothing but a wondrous abundance of understanding for that horrid combustion of intellect.

Anya was an assistant, and she did not mind helping her father, although that hellish job tended to eat away at her very marrow. But she had hoped dearly that lessening his work would allow her more time placed against his affectionate side.

It had not.

Days had come when Ivan did not have to tend to each of those awful and taxing statements, or travel to his office, usually abandoning his daughter to that silent and empty institution, the very word home leaving with his presence, just as it had with hers. And as that comfort adhered to his being and escaped to that dull building placed only a walking distance from home, Anya was left to her own disclaimer, and each moment spent within that emptied shell brought her a loneliness only company could quell.

"Papa, do you have to go again?"

"Yes, I do…" Ivan came outside his chamber and pressed his attention to his exalted jewel. "Do you want these?" In his arms resided an old pair of trousers, tattered and broken by wear, dead as an ancient machine caught inside a busied factory, flesh affected by its very occupation as well as the elements. One would think the man treaded through jungles with that pair. "If you can find a use for them, I won't through them away."

"Do you mean to make something?"

The man nodded.

"Alright. Maybe I can find something to do with them. Thank you…" The pants were adopted into the kindly fairy's touch and unfolded, pretty eyes rolling against their beaten hide and each of those great lacerations. They very well could have been nice a time kept far away, but now they were left swollen and sour. But her judgment was nonchalant, mind coming up with possible reincarnations for that dying weed.

"…You have a large waist, Papa."

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No. You're just big." That set was folded into its original pile and kept over one of those lovely arms. "I'm big, but I'm not fat. You can be one but not the other…"

"I guess so." The girl's frame found embrace between two amorous palms and a kiss was stamped against her cleaned brow. "I'll see you later, Miss Anya. Be good, and don't let anyone into the house. If I'm not home by dinner, you can just eat." Another peck soaked in the man's rich honey all kept for that wondrous nymph.

"No one would come all the way out here anyway."

"I know, but I have to say that. You're my baby."

"_Baby?_ I'm almost an adult."

"Silly Anya. You'll never be an adult to me." A touch upon that vulnerable nose. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Papa."

Anya watched as her father walked away, leaving her only with her new pair of ancient sleeves.

She went to her room and stood before that long mirror set against the wall, placing that curious article upon the floor near her feet. Pretty fingers gently tugged away the clasps lining her dress, the fabric peeling from her shoulders, leaving her with naked flesh and pallid legs. Lips crunched into their typical fold and her blades rolled that minimal amount of flesh sitting against her stomach. Thumbs and index fingers examined its state and the owner finally surrendered her eyes to that twin version of herself, mimicking her very actions with such precise time.

Swallowing reality, she took her father's trousers from their flat against that plain so near to her toes and unfolded them once again. The button, having been replaced and sewed on what possibly could have been a thousand times over was stolen from its place surrounded by fabric and Anya's thin legs slipped through each of those weakly constituted pockets, pulling that waist to her thin hips, the size several times too large.

The queen held that belt around her figure and grinned as a foolish child who had cleverly stolen a sweet, feeling somewhat ridiculous inside those dying threads. Yet, there was an enjoyment at that odd touch lining her naked skin with such gently graces, even though those fabrics seemed as though they would sand away the shell of a stone. She turned sideways in her image and her smile increased in girth. The clasp was set back into its occupation and Anya let go, her garment dropping to her colorful toes. A laugh came and those gathering sheets were lifted a second time.

"Good in pants? That liar." Those lips contorted, and she yanked the last edition of her girlish wardrobe to her chest, laughing even harder. Her back flexed into a position once would find and elderly and broken man, making wheezes and squinting until her eyes nearly shut.

Again, there was laughter.

Her gaze sat against her feet, dressed well inside that baggy article.

They were certainly not a nice pair of pants, but they were good. Something about those tearing threads and worn knees and holy pockets felt like home. Palms traced over each of those collapsing patches, the girl's bottom lip receding into her mouth and below her careful teeth, lost within a small clamp.

She was glad her father had donated them to her.

The trousers were removed and folded once again, taking inhabitance within Anya's closet so full of those brightly colored dresses. Their plumage made that ragged pair seem even more on the side of ruin, however, they still kept their uniqueness.

The closet door closed and she did not place her dress back around her shoulders.

Instead, those anxious sols traveled to her father's room and sat within the threshold a moment, shapely brows rising as her knees forced her inside, almost as though she had expected someone to take residence there. A gaze afflicted quite a few of those scattered tangibles sitting with such innocence inside her father's chamber, and again, she was only able to grin, feeling as the playful thief who should not have entered primarily.

Bare feet moved to that closet, so radiating with forbidden charm and door slid open beneath her gentle discretion, eyes met with the sight of mundane clothing. There were button-up shirts and several series of the same pair of trousers with miniscule variations, the entire space organized and conformed.

"You're so boring, Papa."

Quick hand shuffled through those hangers and pulled away something of brief interest.

It was an ancient army uniform, kept in fantastic condition and luminescent in all its former glory. Shining silver buttons with strange crests lined its center, and a few metals of various honors gained its deepened azure chest.

The fabric was of such heavy worth that it could have easily been coded in plastic, yet there was nothing clothing that wondrous flesh but layers of forgotten dust.

Anya removed it and brushed away that pliable shell, attention admiring every portion of that wonderful garment. It was weighty inside her arms, and it was something of great dominating value; one did not need look far to find that.

It was removed from the hanger by the girl's hands, built of exalted veneration and the trousers that so accompanied it were set against the safety of Ivan's worn bed, as though that careful child would create a laceration within that precious article without even giving serious attempt.

With cautious blades, she unbuttoned each one of those yelling clasps, screaming within all their luxurious glow against that navy foundation, her arms slipping with ease through those baggy sleeves and taking the immediate feeling that she was caught inside a deep embrace. Those silver lockets found their places once again and the girl set inside her faux uniform projected a smile to that faux realm, so taken by that impressive garment far too big for her own form.

It was weighty against her back, clearly built for a strong and large man. She had taken the shoe that her foot could not possibly fill.

More dust was brushed from untouched skin in something of immovable respect and the soul inside that acquired and deep shell only played with her lips, skinning away colored fragments and allowing them easy graves against her naked feet.

She had forgotten all her father was, seeing him only as a solid idol one would demand extensive favors from. Guilt entered her very blood for that great sum of money she had required from his pockets and each of those golden invitations she had graced his tired ears with.

And he had never complained.

Her father was so strong and so willing to give; if the need be, he would sacrifice his own blood for her good, so many of his innumerable efforts left inside those pretty fingers for a shimmering and brilliant future, and she could not even take notice of them, as if each of those heavy truths and sacrifices and pain were simply composed of age and air.

And she wanted to go to _America_; to _New York!_

Her communist father was well aware that her aspirations were to be amongst those capitalist pigs and roll inside their filth, their lies and their sullen and stolen money…

And that cut had been hidden with such expert and bleeding fingers.

The outfit was removed and placed back amongst its less accomplished brethren, the girl who had so borrowed filling her dress a second time while those fingers secured scarlet boots upon her dainty feet.

Her beaten coat was next to inhabit her shoulders, the moment it was secured around her torso, the girl ran into that vast and of bitter snow.

Prints marred that frozen world, an effort intended to bring her to that office she had been forced to see many times previously, heart brimming with warm intention.

So many eyes touched to the running girl as she preformed that assigned duty, finally reaching the great and nearly intimidating edifice, her lungs emptied of their precious breath while her cheeks burned in rouge.

The guard regarded her as a woman who had lost every drop of priceless wit. "Can I help you?"

"I-" A mighty inhale. "I wanted to see-" Huff. "To see Ivan Braginski…"

"…Why?"

Anya held up her finger in an attempt to gather more time and returned to her primary hue. "He's my father. I have to tell him something."

"Did you run all the way here?"

"What do you care?" Only a single heavy breath. "I just have to go see him; please."

"Alright; go." The threshold was held open for that tired girl and with great compulsion, she went in deeper, met with the sight of so many busy people with phones and papers and quick communication inside their mouths. Some drained in accented English and other in Russian, some in languages that observer could not identify, and had it not been for that noble task, she would have stayed and drunken that detailed painting as if it was the richest of wine.

Boots clicked upon that shining floor and the wearer climbed that large set of stairs kept so loudly within the center of that expansive room, giving her way to the upper level. Anya tried to remember where exactly her father was, running down expansive corridors and finding nothing but silent frames and few labels, finally locating a portal with the name printed within golden and proud letters, 'Braginski.'

With careful hands possessed with respect and a nervous heart, she opened the door and came shamelessly inside, knowing she could not possibly wade outside with that separation left ajar only slightly. The man kept so heavily beneath question sat calmly at his desk, stacks of healthy paper bombarding that cool and polished surface.

"I don't have a lot of time. Please make it quick." Ivan was not even looking up, far too taken within that great stack of work to expect anyone but another holder of favors.

"…Papa?"

"Anya?" And finally, his true attention was admitted. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to tell you something….But now that I'm here I don't know how to phrase it. I'm sorry…"

"Did you do something wrong?"

"No…At least, I don't think so."

"Alright…What is it?"

"Well…I love you. And I wanted to thank you because you're a good Papa. I'm sorry that I stress you out sometimes."

"…Did you run all the way here just to tell me that?"

"How did you know I ran?"

"Your face is red."

"Oh…yes. I did."

"You're so silly. Why didn't you just tell me when I arrived home?"

"…I felt bad."

"Why did you feel bad?" The man wished to laugh.

"I love you…And I wanted to spend time with you, since we're both so busy. Maybe when we have the time we can go see a movie together."

Ivan sighed with something as adoration and rose, walking to his daughter and holding her inside a kindly embrace, in which she promptly returned.

"Damn it, I was so focused before you showed up, Miss Anya." That ridiculous fairy queen was a given a kiss upon her warmed cheek. "What am I going to do now?"

"I'm sorry, Papa."

"I'll see a movie with you…" Another peck upon that pretty apple. "But I have to work now." A touch. "So…" A smooch. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." A peck. "Thank you for visiting."

"I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

Anya was left to her place within the center of her father's office, and after a brief wave, she exited, branding a smile upon Ivan's face.

"That crazy girl."

And the crazy girl walked home, a feeling of slight resolution intoxicating her.


	20. Chapter 20

Anya took a place with her father against those worn seats and removed their water bottles from her purse, offering one the larger to the man at her side and keeping the remainder against her stomach.

The movie had not yet commenced, and no one had poured into the theater for a great rush of seats, fighting for simple occupation inside that darkened room. They often times did not.

There were instances when Anya felt fortune for living in partial seclusion, nearly owning that screen with those moving characters and all those dramatic lines, almost as if they were built for her eyes alone. It was often that she entered that dust coded chamber to find only one other person sitting amongst those barren seats, on most occasions, none at all.

Now it was only she and her beloved Papa, who she suddenly felt she owned a great debt to. And she did not mind sharing that room with the man who had completed so much for her. Anya sat against his powerful hand, and although he could close his fingers and bury that living pixie alive beneath his weighty flesh, he did nothing but make sure she was well cared for, and that stomach was always slightly fuller than his very own.

"Thank you for coming with me, Papa."

"Of course, Miss Anya." A press was donned to her brightened cheek. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Why wouldn't I invite you?"

"Good question. I am a pretty awesome date."

Anya expelled her laughter, covering those curling lips with elegant fingers. "You're funny too."

"See? Maybe that's why I'm so popular."

Another upcoming edition of joy. "You're silly."

"Well, you're sillier…Maybe we should be quiet."

The room was surveyed, the girl's curious pair finding no one but the man poised at her side. "They must be upset. They're so angry, they can't even speak."

"Exactly." A press branded upon that unsuspecting, yet gracious brow.

"Alright, Papa. Let's be quiet."

Seconds of amused silence passed and the light projected upon its incandescent screen, the young fairly holding to her father's large thumb and her eyes drenching those unseen heroes and villains who occupied their assumed placed against that faux stage.

Within that first fifteen minutes, she had lost her usually centered focus, that mind too occupied with its whirling thoughts, each of those weighty fragments knocking upon her threshold as though they were an angered mob.

There was something inside her future that those soldiers shooting their guns so precisely could not convey to her.

There were great amorous feelings kept inside her core for her dear Papa, and there was still that searing guilt for her admitted truth, but no matter how ashamed she had been, her dream would always stay her dream, and melting it down and molding it into something shaped far uglier would only resolve her very own personality, and just as that new and hideous shape made from the most wondrous of silver, she would be unable to be turned into the beauty she had been before. It would cause her death, and even trying to destroy such a gorgeous article was nearly impossible. Not even the most feverish of suns could mar it with those flaming numerals, and the holder of all those plans kept so perfect would hardly allow a soul to lay their impure blades upon a possession with such undying worth.

Yet, those lovely white wings were bound in aggressive protocol, tied by a sour red ribbon made by a father's quick hands.

Anya loved her country, but she did not hate another because of that warm adoration, and she had not planned to stay inside any one place forever, neither Russia nor America. Long arms needed to be flexed and trapped feathers required their freedom. Her very figure had been drowned inside a war she did not wish to touch with a grace of her dainty fingers.

And everyone was able to tack opinions to her as pins inside a cushion, and paint that milky what skin blood red. Anya was a shifting canvas lost in the colors of other's horrid paint, and no matter how she bled beneath their brushes those inexperienced marks could not be wiped clean.

Her heart had burst as a shattered egg.

She wished to hold palms to that beautiful sky and demand answers, why her brow was marred with a hammer and sickle by her very own deceptive language; why so much had been predetermined for her before those boots could even touch to the floor; why there was a need to catch her beneath the black wing of the most hated, loved, and feared man within that cosmos she so inhabited.

Those ribbons easily held chains, and that sweet girl knew that there would be no running to those lovely places, Tokyo, Beijing, Paris, London, and New York…Especially not New York. She would have fortune if she could create two steps from her from door before those bloodied shackles were yanked and she was caught behind that mocking portal yet another time.

Still, there was hope that her golden potential could melt those biting metal links and finally, experience could be taken from the lush world laid out before her, all those cities so patiently waiting for that mouth so fluent within their tongues.

Her core was luminary, shining with all the love she was willing to donate to those fantastic continents, yet that great energy was collected as fuel for a single source, and the providing of it made her feel so very sore and broken.

The only thing that brought Anya from her deep trance was the laughter of her father at the enemy's defeat against that strong Soviet Union, and before she even realized it, the movie had completed its drama, and she and her father were walking home.

"Papa, why does it have to be so damn cold outside?"

"Because, it's Russia."

Those usually calm brows shattered beneath the weight of that odd trouble and either pair kept their silence.

Their feet made lacerations inside the crisp snow.

"Anya, is there something on your mind?"

"No. Not really." Her cerulean pair gave another truth.

"Of course there is. Do you think I can't tell?"

"No…I don't know anymore."

"Well, why don't you tell me what it is? Maybe I can help you."

Lips contorted into a flavored sphere. "Have I…Umm-have I hurt your feelings?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"When I said I wanted to go to New York…"

"Well…" Ivan sighed. "What was I supposed to think? I couldn't be happy about it…I don't know Anna. You know how I feel about these-" Sharp words were to put to their deaths before they could even take life. "Americans. I hate them. Just like they hate us. It doesn't make any sense that you would want to live there; not because you want to see how it is. I understand that…It's just, why would you want to live in a place surrounded by people who would hate you? _Is it the money?_ Because you should know that if it's for a greedy reason like that, I'm going to be upset."

"No! No…Of course not. It's not about money or material things or any of that nonsense. I just want to see it with my own eyes; really. And not just New York, but places like France and England. I want to see cities there too. So, I'm sorry. I was thinking about that while you were gone…It must have bothered you. I felt bad because it's probably not what you wanted of me."

"Well, I don't know what I want of you…I want you to be happy, how about that?"

The girl looked to her boots in all their radiating advice and had a mouth dry of word.

"Come on, Anya."

"What?"

"Listen…" Their moving tracks came to an end and either regarded one another with weighty glances. "Just be happy, alright? Just do whatever makes you happy. Even if you have to go to America and break my little Russian heart. If you're happy, then I'll be happy too. I'll at least try, and if not, I'll fake it. If you're doing something I don't approve of- like smoking or kissing random men- I'll tell you. But getting your own opinion is a good idea. I just think it's fair that you know most Americans don't like Russians...I don't want you to make a mistake you're going to regret. So don't worry about me. You need to worry about you, alright sweetheart?"

"Thank you, Papa."

A press was allotted to that freshened cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too."

The two moved through that terrain of harsh snow, and Anya felt better about those crisp instances of metal biting into her sensitive flesh.


	21. Chapter 21

Once again, Anya found herself inside another country after a horrid ride within a quick moving craft, eyes drowning inside their exhaustion and body wrapped in a bed sheet as though it was healing gauze.

Ivan slept inside the bed adjacent to hers, and either did not raise their word, yet knew their feet would once again lead them into a different meeting hall housed so beautifully inside another city, all that was 'different' truly was the same.

Anya did not look forward to partaking in the persona 'Anna', the far and the impersonal. There were warnings numerous times to be her sugared self, but she was still required to be 'Anna', when she was indeed Anya. Anna was an obedient thing saturated in her dull hues and conservative make-up and maturity that truly did not belong to her. Anna was a plain and boring girl while Anya was brilliant as the loudest star within the sky, and just as immutable. There was laughter and cigarettes between her lips, especially words to pretty Americans named Alfred. But Anna did none of those things. Anna was a perfectly polite and restricted version of the true article and found no troubling situation in which her soul could possibly inhabit. Perfect marks lined her report card and there was deep hatred for any and all Americans, just as any good communist carried with them as the greatest weight upon their back. Anna listened to every word her father spewed as though they were the greatest of truths and never in life had she smoked, even when desire to have one of those heavenly little rolls so poised between her painted lips was too strong to possibly defeat. Anna was a woman of black and white and nothing I in between, and never would she dream of keeping fetid truths from her dear Papa, so wondrous and the example of honeyed perfection.

And truly, Anya Braginski did not wear her bitter opposite's flesh well. They were twins down to the mere droplets of blood coursing through their passionate veins, but there was never a pair containing more hatred for one another.

Anna's jealousy of Anya was impossible to place upon a scale. Every moment, Anna longed to tear away those restricting clothes and spit out each of those forced words and adopt the skin of Anya. She wanted her sister's opinionated voice upon her tongue, but there was nothing that could be done to achieve it. Anna and Anya were both universes apart from one another, separated by that great mountain of hideous brick named protocol.

So the more exciting of the pair slept, preparing to undergo that painful metamorphosis from the orange winded beauty she was to gray and dour moth awaiting her just outside that accursed frame, holding a sickle and keeping her time.

And Anya found herself inside that hall with all the people she had observed so many instances previously, clotting into their disgusting little scabs of conformity and leaking their own ugly languages into that polluted air.

After she had confronted her own assigned hoard of companions, she escaped as she always had, hoping to find another European with another pack of glorious cigarettes.

Instead, she located that American sitting so peacefully upon an innumerable bench within his own company, a beverage secured within his gloved palm and his eyes devouring that brilliant sky.

Silently, she snuck up behind him and placed her hands before that chilled glass that gave him such sight. "Guess who?"

"Hmm…Well, judging by your accent and the sound of your voice…I'd have to say that you're Arthur."

"No!" Anya took her hands away and claimed a place adjacent to him.

"Oh! It's Miss Braginski. I was close."

"How is Arthur even close to me? Do I look English?"

There was that natural smile of sunshine and utter amusement that American always seemed to have drawn upon his lips. "No, But you covered my eyes. I didn't know what you looked like. You could have been a six armed monster and I wouldn't have been aware."

Anya concealed her laughter and placed inquiry upon her exalted boots. "You're a dork. That's the right word, isn't it? Dork?"

"Yes, that's right…And you're a dork too."

"What makes me a dork?"

"You're friends with a dork. So you have to be one. And if you're not, you're a dork by association. Whatever the case, you're a still a dork."

"Alright, but that doesn't make you any less of a dork. You just have someone to be a dork with…Dork."

"Dork."

"Dork."

"Dork."

"Dork!"

"Dork!"

Anya donned a slap against that American's chest and once again threw that uniformed insult.

"Oh, you're going to hit me now, _huh?_" Alfred leaned forward, attempting to intimidate the other, who was grinning widely beneath the pressure of consumed laughter.

"Yes…"

"Alright." The blond man sat within his normal position, and devoured only a second before slapping Anya softly upon the arm. "Dork."

The Russian girl released her fragment of mirth and stuck her companion back, no longer desiring to call names. "How have you been?"

"Good!" Slap. "How about you?"

"Really good!" Slap. "Have you seen any good movies lately?"

"No." Slap. "Have you?"

"No." Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

The two launched a barrage of palms, all those blows curdling between them poorly aimed missiles and causing little to no damage. Their bodies leaned far from each other's as their soldiers preformed their great duties of faux aggression, trying to bring that enemy to their inevitable defeat, yet no such task could be placed upon the side of accomplishment.

"Okay! Okay! You win!"

Alfred ceased his fire at the sound of that surrender and gave his arms another task, wrapping them around the Russian girl and pulling her in close.

"Caught ya."

"Oh no! Now what will I do?"

"You can be a good little hostage. Maybe I'll let you go."

"Never!" Anya pulled from her American captor and took off running, the one who had previously held her with such a convincing hold bounding off after her short trail.

Their legs flexed and worked until entire loops were caused around the building, breaths beginning to fade and their determinations still high within those wondrous clouds. Anya did not care of her attire, a beautiful dress, or that a great mass of her hair had been allowed free and chased behind her just as loyally as her former owner, that piece once binding those golden strands broken and lost. She ran as though that blond man upon her heels was carrying a dangerous sort of weapon and intended to take away her life, so brilliant and so very quick before him.

Finally, they stopped near the area they had begun in, chests heaving and eyes in active conversation. Their laughter regarding one another brought pain into those racing hearts, and Anya came nearer to that dangerous man, wrapping him inside an embrace as though it was gauze meant to heal each of those tired and dry heaves.

"You caught me."

"You're so fast…"

"You are too."

They relaxed against one another.

"You smell nice, Anya."

"You do too, Alfred."

"I like your hair."

"I like your pants."

"Thank you."

Seconds filled with necessary breath escaping their starving mouths.

"Would you like to sit down?"

"Yes…That would be very nice."

The pair disconnected and nested back upon their previous seat, Alfred adopted his beverage and taking a long sip, the offering a drink to his exhausted companion, that cup left behind before their foolish race had began.

"Thank you." Anya took a small amount between her lips and handed that container back.

Either laughed and gazes held brief conversation with their loud shoes.

"Alfred?"

"Yes?"

"Can we be pen pals?"

"Sure…"

Their air was captured another time.

"Why do you want to be pan pals with a stupid American like me?"

"Because, I always forget how much I like you until I see you again. Besides, I want to practice my English more. Maybe it will help get rid of this ugly accent."

"I like your accent."

"I like you."

"I like you too…"

The Russian girl leaned nearer to that man without a pensive fragment inside her mind and left a kiss to his tanned cheek, donning a mark dyed slightly pink. Her hands covered those cherry petals the moment that action was completed and she smiled behind that pallid barrier in her amusement and her shame. "I'm sorry."

And Alfred touched her upon that snow hued apple. "Me too."

An elegant palm was left to adhere to that rouge area. "That was my first kiss, you naughty American…"

"Do you want it back?"

"No…you can have it." Her thumb touched to her tongue and she wiped away that brief proof left to spoil upon her companion's flesh. "Just don't show it to everyone. It was really special."

"I won't; I promise."

"Alright. Thank you."

It was at that moment that Anya's pulsing core awakened, and her entire body was embellished with the fresh crimson of attraction so many foolish girls before her had held above their heads as a great and brilliant trophy. Never before had she desired that wondrous gold, that metallic hue proving to be nothing but a faux treasure at the end of a long and disjointed path. But now that she had located a fragment for her own deserving fingers, it illuminated that entire grey sky with its perpetual warmth and azure tones, painting the fattest and most blissful of clouds against that shining canvas. Those elegant blades so occupied against her cheek were determined to mold that immaculate gift into something of heavy wonder, even though that young mind was uncertain of how to translate all that welling emotion.

Alfred had unintentionally knocked a hole within that pearly egg and the life inside it was even more determined to break off running form that imploding shell.

"Can I have your address, Anya?"

"Yes, you can."

A pen was borrowed and careful Cyrillic painted the American's cleaned flesh, filled with apologies because the artist of that fatal tattoo was unsure of how to ruin her acquaintance's arm in English.

It was the first time she had truly let go of her father, usually so consumed with looming above her pretty shoulders, and the first time her heart fluttered as the wings of a free and unbound dove.

The meeting that day passed especially quickly.


	22. Chapter 22

"Anya, what the hell happened to you?"

"What do you mean, Papa? Nothing happened to me."

Ivan regarded his daughter inside a glace saturated within suspicion, lips twisting beneath his nose and face converting to something mildly pink.

"Nonsense. I know you, Miss Anya. You're happy about something. I can see it written all over that pretty face of yours. So tell me, what happened?"

"Nothing happened, Papa. It's just so pretty outside. And we're in Spain. Why can't I just be happy?"

"Because; you're not allowed to _just_ be happy."

"What? _Why?_"

"_You're dressed in grey!_ You're never happy when you're dressed in grey. And what happened to your hair piece?" Those fingers traced through the girl's soft and gorgeous tresses left so perfectly unrestrained. "Are you forming some sort of rebellion?"

"No, Papa. I lost it."

"You lost it? How do you lose a clip without even noticing?"

_A wild American chases you. _

"I don't know…I was just walking around and when I stopped, I noticed it was gone. When I retraced my steps, I couldn't find it…I'm sorry."

"You're an odd child, Miss Anya. But I love you none the less. We'll find another clip for you when we go back home."

"Alright, Papa."

Anya and Ivan continued to prepare for that obligatory dinner, the girl securing a bow against her blushing ear and the man wrapping a tie around his unwilling neck.

Perhaps that wondrous model was drawn in her hated grey, but those toes were still surrounded in their favored fabrics and those nails were hued the shades of a tropical fish. Her hair was not bound by her father's ideals, nor was her soul covered in the ash her Sister Anna spilled so heavily against her shoulders.

Fragments of those dull and broken wings were obstinate and took the sky upon their flesh, the sun setting against those pastel clouds and the pixie attached to them joyous; blissful simply at the idea of those small panels taking their original reflections and rejected the pain so ugly and forced against their once helpless flesh.

The two went to the same place they had earlier in the day, and took their seats within their usual selection of people, weeds within that room of exotic plants, and all eyes regarded them choking within Anya's golden fountain leaking onto her dainty shoulder, almost as though it was the most beautiful piece of art they had ever laid their curious attentions upon.

"Hello."

"Hello, Anna." A few replies and that Russian pair took their space.

Anya found herself within the company of her father and adjacent to her, the Belarusian woman, who seemed to stare daggers into her delicate flesh the moment she descended from her standing position.

"Hello…"

"Oh, hello…" Those icy marbles met Anya's tresses. "I like your hair." Her voice was full of a dour soul, living against her breath so soaked in its boredom.

"Thank you. I like yours too…What's your name?"

"Natasha. And you're Anna."

"Yes. That's me."

"Hmm."

The girl sat within the awkward silence all birthed from the other's unpleasant aura suffocating either of them. "…You're from Belarus, aren't you?"

"Yes; I am."

"Is it nice there?"

"No."

"Oh…I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Well…I don't know."

Moments of sharp silence past.

"Natasha, do you like movies?"

"Yes, but I never get to see them. I haven't been to the movies in a long time."

"I'm sorry-I mean...Uh-I went to a movie about a week ago. It was alright, but kind of boring. I think Papa liked it though."

"What did I like?" Ivan leaned gently into their conversation.

"The movie."

"…Which movie?"

"Papa! How could you forget? We saw it together."

"…Oh! That movie. It was alright. I wouldn't see it a second time."

"You seemed to enjoy it."

Ivan only allowed that mouth to morph and kissed his daughter's vulnerable cheek.

"Papa…" And Anya turned to her previous conversation with Natasha, finding the woman's mouth laced with words directed to another.

Her napkin gained every bit of her focus, those pretty tattoos lining its flesh as though they were something ceremonial and special, that pretty hide wrapped around a fork and spoon loyally as a snake would wear its skin. Long fingers stripped those fancy instruments of their precious apparel and held that piece to the light. It was taken from its thickness and laid against the table's visage as though it was in serious operation, beginning to tear individual lines from its innocent shell, rolling each of those fragments into a perfect and careful sphere. Her cautious blades placed them each in a row and picked a single canon ball up, abducting it from its home amongst those many brothers built for the very same purpose. She flung it at her father and missed.

He did not notice.

Mirth leaked from her lovely mouth in a small quantity and another harmless bullet was launched, this one taking root against her father's unsuspecting crown.

Joy.

"What are you laughing at, Miss Anya?"

"Nothing."

Ivan squinted at her, and those destructive hands housed a smile, the girl behind them murdering her bliss before any real amount could break from her defensive throat.

"What are you hiding?"

"Nothing Papa! I promise."

"…Alright."

Ivan returned to his social discomfort and Anya progressed with her assault.

That edition brought faux death to his ear.

"Are you flicking Paper balls at me?"

"_No…_"

"Anna Braginski, you better stop it. You don't want me to flick back."

"What if I do?"

"_You don't._"

"Alright…I'll stop."

"Thank you."

That sling slot was loaded with an air of indefinite regard and her father turned, catching her assassination and smiling. His thumb and index fingers created a weapon of its own caliber and afflicted that ridiculous child upon either cheek and the tip of her unprepared nose.

"Oww…"

"I warned you."

"Papa…That actually hurt." There was still a grin of foolishness set about her frame.

And her forehead was granted a kiss in charity. "You'll live."

"I'm sorry."

"That's alright. Now shut up and be good."

So Anya welded her mouth shut and sat in bitter stillness, abandoning her once deadly arms and wishing there was someone willing to speak with her.

For a moment, she considered that sweet American who had stolen away her first kiss, even though his kindly lips had only diminished her blushing cheek.

She remembered that fragrant smell of soda and dirt and sunshine and warmth, a combination as odd as it was poignant.

…She must have reeked of cigarettes.

Cigarettes and her father.

A sigh burst from those suffocating lungs and the nymph required a heavy drink of her soothing lemonade, freshly dropped before her anticipant numerals.

And before realization infected her, it was time to mingle, And Anya stuck to her usual wall several minutes before she traveled outside, wanting the tobacco she had not been allowed.

Perhaps she had not desired another cigarette but another touch from that Alfred's strange mouth…or perhaps both.

Another great and taxing breath expelled and the girl leaned back upon her palms, eyes shutting.

Soon after, her boots dragged her inside that edifice, and she swallowed all her sickening conundrums.


	23. Chapter 23

Anya had gone home, as she always had after those short and fleeting days within another country. Thoughts inhabited her mind as to why their presence was a perpetual requirement, when they truly did not need to be at hand, and why more time was not allowed to go roaming about those pleasant spots they were so forced to fill, as a rabbit inside a cage upon a gorgeous field of green and blooms. It did not seem right to keep them so contained.

But it was truly irrelevant. The job had been done, regardless of what was wanted from those brief and often horrible trips.

Their bodies were set back to the mundane existence of a busy schedule and minds designed only to think quickly.

And Anya returned to her flavored cigarettes and homework, saturated in her grand thoughts and all her churning futures, kept so forcefully into her innocent and hesitant grasp.

Of course, thoughts came regarding that infectious kiss that American had branded against her innocent and mal prepared Russian cheek; it was supposed to burn as a great and violent fire set upon an unsuspecting collection of trees, but the holder of that supposedly acidic jewel could find no such sensation other than in her fluttering heart. The only harm done was set against her calculation, overpopulating that skull with all her thoughts and opinions.

"Papa…"

"Yes?"

Either party, father and daughter sat upon their kitchen chairs and devoured those stinging obligations.

"Are you happy?"

"_Am I happy?_ Of course I'm happy. I have a good job and a nice home and pretty daughter. Why wouldn't I be happy?"

"I don't know."

"Are you happy, Miss Anya?"

"Well…"

"_No?_"

"No! I mean…I'm _happy_, but I think I could be happier."

"What would make you happier?"

"I'm not sure, Papa. I was thinking about having more free time with you. Going to see more movies, Maybe just taking a walk together and getting something to drink."

"_Something to drink?_"

"Juice or lemonade or something like that…"

Ivan expelled a bit of bliss. "For a moment I thought you meant Vodka."

"No…"

"Well, I'd be happier with more free time as well. But we're busy people. There's that can be done, accept for doing your work and hoping that there's not any more to do." Something gained the man's approval. "But I love you. And I'm sorry there isn't much time left for fun. We can go for a walk later tonight, if you like…"

"That would be nice."

"Great! I'll hurry along with these papers."

"Alright…Papa?"

"Yes, Dear?"

"Why do we have to go to those stupid dinners?" Anya regarded her colorful nails as though she was asking for additional words. "I heard that we weren't actually required to go."

"Who told you that?"

"I don't remember…But it was someone I spoke to before the meeting."

"Hmm…Well, in a way you _do_ have to go, because it's considered extremely rude not to go without a reason. But technically you aren't _required_ to…"

"Then why do we?"

"Didn't I just tell you?"

"For other people's opinions?" Anya regarded her father with grave eyes. "That's a stupid reason to do anything."

And the man sighed, hands acting as shields to his vision. "Anna please…Why do you have to think so much all the time? Doesn't your brain get tired, or don't you get sick or _something_ to make you stop? We just do these things because we do. It's protocol. Now stop making me crazy and so something productive."

"But, Papa-"

"Anna; hush." Ivan regarded his child with a pair of rhinestones melded in both seriousness and play. "Don't ask so many questions. You'll be unhappy with the outcome."

"But why?"

"Because, none of the answers are what you want them to be. We still have to go to dinner, we're still busy and we're both still relatively happy. Nothing's been changed and now we've just wasted all this time talking about it."

"How can anyone live their life without questions?"

"The same way you can with them. Now let me work, please…I still want to walk with you."

"Alright."

"I love you, Anya."

"I love you too, Papa." With a heart poised by depression, Anya took up her papers and traveled to her own chamber, soul somewhat broken at having nothing accomplished from the side of nonsense to the side of reason.

There was no comprehension at the mere thought of staying quiet.

Without knowledge, she writhed, great upset brought to that insatiable mind. And the very idea that she was sent away while trying to quell that monster constantly craving new information allotted her even more of that twisting discomfort.

She continued on with her homework.

Anya determined she would certainly leave. Answers were required to fill that great jigsaw puzzle forming within her jogging thoughts, and every word towards that known simply pushed her into the unknown, words draining from a biased and often times hateful mouth.

And she desired that world within her own eyes, not from another's fetid lips.

Chances would be given and all the beings she met with her sparkling and accepting jewels she was built to hate, yet she could find love within that warm heart for that universe branded and forbidden.

The ears set around her should have been more willing to listen and abandon procedure that made no correct sense.

Another problem was created and another sigh was born.

Anya worked through those long and seemingly pointless numerals, and as those tedious issues fell to the arms of completion, she lied upon her bed, too small for her long limbs, and lidded her eyes several long moments, figure subdued to a pretty and hopeful dream.

Her father would wake her. He always did. But there would be great relish taken from what little rest she would receive.


	24. Chapter 24

She waited and she waited and after waiting she waited once again.

And yet, nothing had come.

Anya was tempted to stand outside her barren mailbox and watch as that letter inhabited that poor creature's emptied stomach, along with the new documents and all the other boring fragments of procedure that embellished those pretty envelopes.

After she had finished smoking her cigarettes and reading her novel, the mail would be checked, the girl searching through each of those letters as though she was uncovering a mystery of great pertinence, trying within greatest skill to find the man who had hoarded words, desperate for that American's name in sloppy hand.

Yet, she never located that sacred article.

One day, that impatient siren arrived to her enchanting home and tore that savage lip from its container, throwing her things into the bitter snow and pulling the innards from their bleeding corpse. Fingers explored those organs as though they belonged to an important surgeon performing obligation that might require or hopefully recover a needy life. But finally, those bloodied knives went flying and that gauze had become of ill use.

"Ahh!"

"Miss Anya!" The door separated from its once peaceful frame and her father stood at that first icy step. "What in the hell are you yelling about?"

"I'm so angry!"

"Why?"

"Because of that stupid bastard!"

"Stop your yelling and cursing! Just come inside!"

The rage inflicted girl took up her chilled items from the ground's frozen hold and moved towards that porthole, knowing she would need to create wondrous fabrication to ease her father's usually insatiable curiosity.

Boots ruined those steps so drenched in their harsh ice and the threshold came open, the blushing nymph entering and her father waiting for her.

"So what's the matter with you?"

Ivan was given each of those fruitless carriers and Anya regarded those wise feet for advice, covered toes telling her to simply wing it.

"Nothing's wrong with me, papa. Nothing too bad anyway."

"Well, what happened?"

"Actually, nothing. It's been a long a long day and everyone got on my nerves." A sigh placed only for the appearance of that crushing stress. "And I have enough homework to drown in, when I only want to relax, maybe even sleep. I'm sorry."

"But who id the stupid bastard?"

"Oh! Him…That stupid Boris really upset me today! He's one of those idiotic boys who _always_ feels the need to talk about something immature and inappropriate! And he always calls me a giraffe! _I'm not a giraffe!_ It's not my fault that I'm tall! I think he's just upset because he's so short; and ugly!" An aggressive breath forged in the fires of her faux passion. "He has a huge nose, no lips, and beady little eyes; gigantic brows too. I'd feel sorry for him if he wasn't such a-ah! There's not even a word vulgar enough to describe him."

Anya did not know anyone under the title of Boris. No one had called her a giraffe and she had walked from a fairly pleasant day.

But her father believed her, and that was all that truly held pertinence.

"I'm sorry, Anya." Her thin body was held inside a loving embrace. "People like that annoy me too. How could he call you a giraffe?"

"I don't know, Papa."

"Do you want me to kick his ass?"

A laugh. "No, Papa. I can probably do that myself."

"Good. You'll probably get in less trouble." A kiss found her brow and warmed her flesh. "I love you."

"I love you too…" Arms allowed their opposite freedom. "I'm going to do my homework now."

"Alright." Another brand of the father's affection. "I'll see you later. I have something to do as well."

A nod, and the child went to her room to complete the homework she had lied about. There was only a few math problems set upon a compliant page and a few pages to read of that expansive and heavy book.

As she solved each of those miniscule endeavors, Anya's mind burst into the air and ran far from Russia and into that American's foolish hands. The unknown reasons of his deficiency of words infuriated that lady in constant waiting, and the fact that she was not allowed his address only brought her more churning and silent rage.

Anya hoped there was good reason for that ill treatment. Perhaps that American was simply too busy for a few messages against a page, that job devouring his life and time, despite the truth that it did allot for days used personally.

She wondered if it was the simple idea that her father always loomed behind her as a great menace, constantly at a fighting position to tear either her enemies or her lovers into bloodied pieces of themselves, their forms becoming raw meat inside the watch dog's clamping jaw.

Anya was cheated out of companions due to that large and overwhelming shadow, as though the entire world saw her father long before they could detect her presence beneath him, her soul converting to nothing but ashes the man would carry for her.

Regardless, what was Alfred afraid of? Their countries had played their idiotic games for all of eternity. As far back as that aware mind could recall, it had always been a brutal painting of the Russian against the Americans; no matter what one side believed, the other always had the opposite words printed within their minds, and they were evil, and they were cruel, and they wished to kill your family and fill their empty lives with all your possessions.

It had been occurring so many years, yet that did not stop that seemingly kind American from speaking to her as though she was a companion, someone far more than a young woman painted in bright crimson. His eyes saw each of those gorgeous shades wrapping around her easily as her very flesh, and nothing had placed bans against friendly words of understanding pouring as sweetened wine from those handsome lips, and it did not prevent that very orifice from touching so gently to her blushing cheek.

And she was Russian. Anya might as well have been the most Russian girl in all of Russia. It still didn't stop the American.

So what was a letter? What was a page with quick word? They did not have to be thick and they did not have the need of fantastic and wondrous complexities, but they did indeed hold the requirement to exist. Yet, Anya held blank parchment and a ready pen that could not express a single thought.

As soon as math was finished, she summoned a new canvas and her most favored purple pen, beginning to write a letter to the man who could not do the very same for her. It was not angry; nor accusing, but the sort of phrase one would grant to a close friend. Her finest English was utilized, the user nervous of sounding intelligent and fluent within her painful years of pain-staking lessons. Naturally, a few mistakes were made, and Anya noticed them upon her proof reading, layering them in a fast scribble and allowing new letters in their misplaced positions.

The letter was folded into four corners and given shelter inside her purse, lying as a corpse within those strange innards and prepared to present to Alfred upon their next meeting.

As soon as that magenta secret had been stowed away, her door came open, and a howl of utter shock broke from the girl's lips.

"Did I surprise you?"

"Oh, no…Hello, Papa."

"Hello, Miss Anya…I have paper anxiety. Let's go to the movies."

"Really? Just like that? What about all of the responsibility and duty and that nonsense?"

"Nothing can be accomplished if my brain pops. Forget responsibility and duty. I'd rather have fun instead of suffering through a stroke."

Anya smiled and stood from that little desk chair, walking towards her father and securing him inside those slender arms.

"You finally understand. I'm so proud…"

"Well, for my graduation gift, you can buy the tickets. How about it?"

"Papa! I taught you too well. You can't use my own tricks against me. Besides, you're the one who wants to go." A kiss was given to the man's cheek and the donor held him at a nearer proximity.

"Well, fair enough. Even though you always want to go to the movies; I'll pay. But only because I love you. And you're cute."

That lovely creature laughed. "Is that why you love me? Because I'm cute?"

"_Well_…mainly. But you have other good qualities."

"Like what?"

"Well. Um…"

Anya ended that stammer before anymore of her feelings were trampled upon by faux sols. "Shut up, Papa. Let's leave before I don't want to go anymore."

The large man laughed and donned a tinge to his daughter's brow, feet leading them outside that chilly portal.


	25. Chapter 25

She lied inside a field of gorgeous flowers, eyes lidded and clothing gone. Each one of those pretty crimson buds lapped at her flesh softly, as if granting her sweet kisses tasting of warm honey.

Soft wind wrapped around the girl's lengthily body and took all the exhaustion from those tired limbs, euphoria filling her stomach and her gaze touching to that vast and embellished sky, finding a man to inhabit that very canvas.

There was not a single garment against his flesh either.

Anya's legs curled beneath her and regarded that intruder, his figure bronzed and beautiful, face the very same as the American who seemed to fill her thoughts so frequently.

"Alfred…" Her attention touched to those tight muscles and that patch of gold that housed the one organ she had heard so often about from irresponsible peers and those innumerable health books.

Anya pressed her view to each of those lovely blooms, an arm covering her bare and placid chest.

"Hello, Anya. Can I sit with you?" For some odd reason, that shining man spilled his sugared communication in Russian, but the girl did not raise her question to it.

"Alright…"

The blond took his seat aside that blushing queen and stole her free hand, their fingers intertwining and their pupils holding a conversation deeper than any word could likely convey. Either drew closer to one another and their lips touched softly, tongues tying as pretty red laces and arms forming embraces.

Those virgin breasts touched to that American's collar and their kiss grew in its passion, the girl's nails digging slightly into that darkened back.

"Anya…"

She rolled upon those innocent blossoms and stared at her sudden lover, mouths separating slowly.

"Alfie, I've never done this before…" An elegant hand found that radiating chest.

"I'll be gentle with you…" A palm to the pale doll's neck, and a thumb settling within that pretty crook. A kindly press was offered to her. "Do you want to do this?"

"Yes, I do…Because I love you." A soft embrace of orifices left starving. "I want you to make love to me."

"Alright."

"Alfie, will you sit up?"

"Of course."

The American man did as he was requested and sat upon that bed of sweet roses, the Russian girl taking residence upon his lap and once against touching their lips in unison. Fingers were brought to her breast, which was promptly joined by another, a moan leaking from their bond of tongues.

Alfred did not waste time playing with those hardening nipples, kneading them between his thumb and index finger while pulling his jewel to a nearer proximity. Soft cries of unfettered enjoyment came from parting lips, and the creators did not hesitate in allowing them free.

Their faces fell from one another and their gazes met for a sweet moment of contact. Alfred's worn hands supported that thin waist, and a short press was donated to those supple lips.

"Lean back a little bit."

Anya listened to those honeyed commands and was soon met with a wet sensation against one of those buds, a small vacuum created as a tongue rotated against that sensitive point.

"Ahhh…Alfie."

No protest was made as that thin body was allowed into that ocean of soft petals, that orifice leaving the girl's breast and planting touches along her smooth stomach until reaching that little garden. There was slight doubt before a battered hand came to her spread thighs, as if asking for permission.

"Please…"

A kiss was left upon her opening before that generous mouth widened and pressed that resident against her tiny pink pearl. Fingers slipped gently inside her as that organ continued at its occupation, sending throngs of unrestrained pleasure against her helpless blood and possessing those pretty mounds to shout their pleasures.

Anya's breath hitched within her throat and Alfred removed his fingers, allowing that skilled serpent to press inside her and place even more ecstasy within her quick pacing veins.

"Alfred!"

Anya's free hand drifted through the man's golden locks, orifice opening even wider and her bond with that skilled American extending.

"I love you, Anya."

"Ahh…I love you too."

Just as her beautiful lover's tongue dipped into that soaking crevice, that nymph's eyes came to that room set around her and she found herself within that old edifice. There were no flowers, nudity, or tanned admirers that had sworn such easy affection.

There was only Anna Braginski, with moisture between her legs and a heart fluttering in all its upset confusion.

"_Alfie?_"

Numerals came with ease into her opening and she pulled them away to find lubrication coding seemingly dirtied prints. The excess was wiped upon the sheets with a heavy sigh and Anya lied back down, sight hiding beneath those lashes only momentarily as her mind soaked in all its terrible offense.

Those sorts of fantasies were not allowed into her mind, yet the possessor and the creator could not help but place them within that growing field. Within her rationality, she did not know feeling for that American, but her heart clearly spoke volumes of his general nature. However, ears were deaf to those impassioned screams no matter how they echoed throughout her very blood. There was no acknowledgement for them. Not even when they became so perfectly clear, flooding between her thighs with faux love and beds soaked inside their imaginary roses.

Anya did not sleep; she only waited for fresh thought to overtake her aching awareness.


	26. Chapter 26

Anya packed her things, excitement not focused upon the trip, or the meeting, or the boring dress, or the awkward dinner, or sleeping inside another uncomfortable hotel room; she was bitterly insulted that the American could not find enough time to place a minimum amount of words upon parchment for her glassy eyes, and too lazy to place them inside an envelope and stamp that innocent flesh with an address.

Yet, there was a clamor of her very blood for the opportunity to spill all that sharp thought into his idiotic ear, because her heart did indeed hold wounds, accidentally crushed beneath a relentless sneaker.

And those Russians migrated from their comfortable little home and landed inside England's barriers, surrounded by stone buildings and interesting accents.

"Anya, what's the matter with you? You've been quiet the entire trip…I thought you wanted to come to England."

"I did…But I'm so tired." Crimson boots slipped on and brilliant wings converted to lowly dust, replaced by their counterparts who were left colorless and dull. Anya could not break that persona that devoured her as a vast ocean, she an unfortunate seagull who grew exhausted of flight, a drowning swimmer in dense waves. "Why aren't you exhausted after these stupid trips?"

"After a while, you get used to it."

"It has been a while, Papa."

"Not long enough…It's alright." A press allotted to that sickly fairy's brow. "Come on…We can't be late."

There were not words upon that child's tongue; she only took up her purse and left that irritating cell with her father.

They preformed their protocol as though they were actors upon a stage, having rehearsed that act numerous times over and dancing to identical music every time they were required before those rich and meretricious curtains. And once those forced smiles and kind words composed of the ugliest of dust had passed, Anya allowed her body outside as she always had, locating her American upon one of those benches, upon which one could always find him.

He had met her there.

And Anya did not smile.

Instead, the letter was removed from its fortress and came into the light, shimmering within neatness and that wondrous plum hue, the mother of those sugared words handing them to the man that lovely child was intended for, disapproval sketched about that quality canvas.

"Are you upset with me?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Magenta words were accepted and that sapphire stare connected with the tall girl's sharp glance. "What? You're just going to walk up to me angry? What is this? I'm not reading it if you won't say it."

"It's not an angry letter. It's just a letter. I wanted one from you and I never got one. I'm hurt." A moment of weighty silence. "I wrote it in my favorite pen…It's purple. And I would have sent it to you if I had your address."

"I'm sorry…" Alfred removed those glowing spectacles and furrowed his golden brows. "Sit down for a moment. I have a good reason."

And the Russian nymph listened, seating herself upon that bench and regarded her American with such tired eyes.

"I wrote you a letter."

"You did?"

"Yes. But I didn't send it…I think you should tell your father that you're sending notes to an American, much less me. Ivan hates me. And you probably know that he does; does he know that you want to be my pen pal?"

"No…"

"Well, I didn't want to get you into trouble. You should tell him that we're friends. At least that way he can think about killing me before he does it out of impulse, alright?"

"He'll kill me too…"

They sat in an uncomfortable quiet for a moment.

"Here, Anya." A set of parchment was taken from its inhabitance inside that thick jacket, folded just as hers was. "I spilled coffee in one corner, but you can still read it. I'm sorry."

"Oh, Alfie…_I'm sorry_. I thought you forgot about me. But you wanted to keep me out of trouble."

"_Alfie?_"

"…Do you mind?" Lips contorted as the wearer adopted her stained words. The use of that fetid title was not intended, birthed from that perverse dream. "I thought of a nickname for you…"

"I like it…What's your nickname?"

"…Anya."

"But that's your name."

"No…" She stifled her grin. "My name is Anna. But I hate my name, so I just tell everyone that my name is Anya…So don't call me Anna."

"Why do you hate your name?"

"It's ugly and plain…I don't want to be either of those things."

"You're not."

"I hope I'm not."

"Well…You're not. What would your name be if you had a choice?"

"Any name?"

A nod built in affirmation.

"Well…I guess maybe Kseniya, or Liliya…"

"Anything that's not Russian?"

Either shared a quick burst of joy.

"Antoinette…That's an interesting name."

"Antoinette Braginski?"

"I know…Shut up." There was joy. "But it's pretty and unusual. Especially for a silly Russian girl like me…I've never met anyone named Antoinette."

"Well, it's nice."

"What would you name me?"

"Probably something like Abigail or Edwina; maybe Olga."

"Olga?" A smack afflicted his arm set in the essence of play. "That's the name of a fat ugly woman with a tacky dress and um…" She pointed to her shapely brows. "Just one."

"A unibrow?"

"Yes! A unibrow…Unibrow. That sounds right." A grin and a river of phrase. "And a big gut! With twelve children…And I don't have any of those things."

"Gut, huh?"

"You see? I remembered."

"I'm glad I'm teaching you proper English."

Two hearts illuminated with bliss.

"I know…But I like that word." That tall nymph once again rang her lips into a pleasant knot. "Do you know any other languages?"

"Yes…But don't tell anyone."

"Why not?"

"Because…Just don't, please."

"I won't, I promise…So what do you speak?"

"I know German, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese, a little French…I'm forgetting something. Pig Latin, Babble, Gibberish, Nonsense in all its dialects…I think that's it."

"Nonsense? Are you fluent in Nonsense?"

"Yes; I've been studying it for five years."

"Wow! Can you say something in Nonsense?"

"Sure!" Alfred made a ridiculous sort of cry and followed it by another, causing an outburst from the one at his side, hands covering those petals painted in such a lovely gloss.

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'you're a lovely young woman and we should go out to dinner with another, and afterwards, promptly see a French film in which first cousins are in love, and during the climax, someone commits suicide.'"

Anya continued to laugh. "That's pretty good."

"Thank you."

They released their humor as brilliant balloons challenging that vast and azure sky.

And once calmness eased their blood, the girl came to her actual inquiry. "Can you really speak all of those? Because that's quite impressive."

"Yes, I can…Can you speak any other languages?"

"No; only Russian and English…I feel really stupid."

"You're not stupid…It takes a while, and your English is good."

"Thank you, but I'd still like to know other languages."

"Which ones?"

"Well, French and Italian. German too…Anything I can get my hands on." For a moment, thought washed within her mind as fresh water inhabiting a tub. "I thought you said you only knew one word in Chinese."

Alfred smiled and leaned in nearer, decorating that innocent ear with a sweet whisper. "I lied."

"Dirty Alfie, telling little girls secrets. Maybe I should sit somewhere else…If you can speak Chinese, why don't you prove it?"

Alfred sighed and cleared his throat, waiting only a few moments and shattered normal communication, replacing it with a lovely jar brimming with Mandarin noise. Short minutes were scarred with that nonsensical rambling and the Attention of Yao was drawn, who nearly ran over and stared at the American at the sound s of those familiar words.

In his mother tongue, he spoke. "What are you doing?"

"Speaking Chinese."

"…Where did you learn Chinese?"

"I studied it."

A brow collapsed and Yao looked to Anya, who simply waved, clearly unable to partake in that great mess of fluent confusion.

"Is that Braginski's daughter?"

"Yes. She is."

"You better be careful. That man is going to saw your face off and glue it to your behind, and he'd not going to be sweet about it."

"I know…And I've been nice to her. You can ask her yourself."

"That's exactly _why_ he going to saw your face off. You be careful. She's pretty." Yao smiled to the lost Russian girl. "Hello."

"Hello." Anya answered.

"Anyway, you better be careful. I won't mention anything, but you promise me you won't pull something funny." They converted back to Mandarin.

"I promise Officer Yao, _I promise_."

"Shut up…You baby."

"Old man."

The Chinese man stuck his tongue out and once again moved his gaze to that lovely young woman. "This man is crazy. You should run."

"I know."

"Well, I suppose I should introduce myself. I'm Wang Yao." The Chinese man extended his hand, aware of those opposite customs and Anya took it, moving that soft hand gently. She held shock at the smoothness of that palm and did not wish to allow it freedom. Yet, she did.

"I'm Anya Braginski."

"Do you speak any Chinese, Anya?"

"Oh, no…If I tried to, you would laugh at me."

"That's alright. Chinese is difficult. And I wouldn't laugh at you." Yao offered a small grin to the American man. "I'm surprised you could learn it so well."

"I am too." Alfred allotted for his input.

"Yes well, I'll leave you two alone. It was nice to meet you, Anya. I've heard quite a lot about you."

"Well…Who hasn't?"

The man's lips curled and his feet took him to another section of that great edifice and the land surrounding it, granting those two children the conversation he had temporarily robbed.

"Well done, Mr. Jones."

"Thank you."

There was a sweet time filled with thoughts in all their quiet, the girl's mouth saturated inside a request, and her heart gaining courage to allow it from that barred cage.

"…Alfred?"

"Yes?"

"…Can I get you to come to dinner tonight? I know I'm asking a lot but…It's annoying to be alone with all of those boring people and I usually just go outside and sit by myself anyway…And I always want someone to talk with, but no one has anything to say."

"Alright, but you owe me."

"Fine, what do you want?"

"I don't know yet, but you owe me." The man was producing words from kid, and the girl took no offence to those playful binds.

"Thank you." Anya wrapped her American inside a happy embrace and held him near, the familiar scent of sunshine drifting into her nostrils.

And they went to their meeting, the Russian girl far more impressed with that man so doused in charisma.


	27. Chapter 27

And so they gathered, and within that great mass of shifting statues Anya searched for her American, unable to claim that rare diamond form that great pile of mangled rock. Ivan held inquiry at his daughter's eyes, why they were so easily traveling to every corner of that noise-infested room, but did not press any questions against her curious ears, so enveloped in that busy sound that drifted around them easily as air. As most times, he labeled that behavior as nothing more than another silly conundrum.

Places were inhabited by tried souls and greetings shot in rapid fire from each of the attendants' mouths as bullets fired in a war of second nature, Anya still in desperation for that missing blond idol.

"Anna, it's nice to see you again." The Ukrainian woman was first to puncture her busy thoughts with awkward communication.

"Oh, thank you…I didn't see you last time. Were you feeling sick?"

"Oh, no…I was so exhausted from the flight over that I just slept through dinner. When I woke up, the clock read twelve thirty and I went back to sleeping."

Of course, fragments of that hidden truth poured from her mouth but were masked in the haze of bitter lies infested with pain plucked from the fabricator's very heart. In her sudden and insatiable sorrow, she stayed inside her room and allowed emotion produced from her sullen core as blood rushing from a dying neck. Another difficult time had struck her as god's mallet of great steel, crushing her bone and leaving her stomach a shattered and empty cavity, the only remnant inside the hallow wind of despair.

And Katya could not have allowed such outburst to grace the gazes of so many, especially at such a gorgeous and formal occasion. After all, they were puppets placed upon a stage, and anything other than churning pleasantries was not written inside that studied script.

"That's what I want to do…Sleep. I don't understand how everyone can be so adjusted to traveling so often. Papa says I'll get used to it, but I don't believe him."

Ivan did not interject at the sound of his endearing title.

"Well, I don't know about that. I'm certainly not used to all this traveling, but…I'm me. We all know how that goes."

Anya released her bliss only to send that joyous noise into hackneyed graves seconds preceding. "I'm sorry…You shouldn't say those kinds of things about yourself. You're a kind person, so it doesn't really matter if you make mistakes sometimes. I do."

Katya smiled, wishing to adopt that tall and slender girl into a warm and needed embrace.

"Thank you, Anna."

"You're welcome."

Anya spoke with Katya until they were required to order those drinks, and then they commenced after that. They spoke during dinner and they spoke well after that; eventually, their minute reunion shattered as a hideous vase upon sweet marble, and the dejected woman went into the bathroom while the glowing child went to share her light with that golden haired man.

And Ivan had taken notice to their friendly and compressed words, and had not a comment for their births. Instead, he followed that broken woman on her trip, stalking silently behind that ever flowing train of loud sorrow.

Katya did not catch that weighty presence floating behind her as a lost phantom; her mind once again embellished in all its choking regret and lost golden moments, washing as noisome water pouring into a starving drain.

The Ukrainian woman entered that facility with quick feet and Ivan stood outside the door, pressing his ear to that cooled surface and awaiting imminent tears.

And after long seconds of patience wrapped in a solution of worry and heated thought, they came, and they were faint, passion arriving slowly under a stifled throat.

The door opened and that Hungarian woman emerged, shocked at the sight that met those inquisitive emeralds.

"Hello, Ivan." The door shut. "Can I ask why you're standing outside the women's' restroom?" Her tone was neither enthusiastic nor curious.

"…What happened to your arm?"

Beneath all of Elizaveta's shimmering tresses beamed a magenta wound, large and vast as an unfortunate birthmark, yet it would fade, and at that shameless wonder came a pride lost and a hand against that scathed flesh.

"It's nothing. Just a little gift one of your friends left me." Her dainty finger shifted above that screaming injury. "It was nice of him, wasn't it?"

Ivan's mouth grew barren.

"Katya is crying; if that's why you're standing here…There's no one else inside, so if you want to check on her, it won't be much of a problem."

"Thank you."

A solemn nod and two sets of sifting toes, either moving in the opposite direction.

That door fell from its frame and the Russian man walked inside with caution, as though he was arriving to a great battlefield of an on-going war. He knew he did not belong there, and quite clearly, he should not have entered. Katya would not wish to feed him her battered opinions, nor would she want to touch her pretty gaze to his visage, yet, he took access to that still room and listened to those muffled cries.

"Ivan, is that you?"A voice bathed in uneasy tranquility illuminated those horrid walls, several heavy breaths backing their peaceful births.

"Yes…"

"What are you doing here?" Sniff. "Men aren't allowed inside the ladies' room."

"I know…" Their projections were something light as the lost feathers of a lovely dove.

The threshold split quietly and Katya appeared before it, fresh emotion pressed against those gems and rivers of mascara flowing against cheeks smeared with clotting rouge.

"Why did you have to bring her here, Ivan? Why did you? It's even harder to think of her now, and every time I do, it hurts…If you didn't want me to be in her life, why did you drag her here? Why would you dangle food before a starving woman's grasp? I've respected your wishes. I stayed away; I gave up. So why do you take her to these meetings where I'm required to be and sit her at _my_ side? Why must you do this? I had to give her up once, and now I have to give her up once a month. It's like all my old scars and reopening, and each time I lose more blood than the last. You don't want her near me, yet you throw her into my face. What do you want me to do? Is this some kind of sick game to get back at me for keeping her from you?"

Wiped tears and culpable silence.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry because it hurts. I just-I just didn't know what to do…"

Finally, her words reached the end of their miserable years and Ivan came to a kinder proximity, embracing that saddened woman and allowing all her heart to drain against his once fresh blouse.

He did not hold love for her, just as her heart had gone emptied for him, but either knew that stab of loss all too well. Misfortune lived inside their very hearts and either felt foolish for not allowing the other in when there was opportunity. Ivan's corpse grew boisterous in guilt and deathly shame, having done the same thing to the woman who so wronged him with matching daggers coded in a matching flavor of drying essence.

"I'm sorry, Katya."

And either apology did not contain a droplet of worth; the situation had birthed a beautiful and charming young woman and two souls shattered and unable to be mended. Fragments of those broken emotions had come together within a bitter and understanding jar of sand and were lost there, waiting to be torn away by mere circumstance and obligation either had set so many years previously.

And upon the other side of that reaching universe, Anya sat with her Alfred, chatting of their movies and language and food, each of those items finding a dear chamber within either's heart. They sat beneath that dappled sky, lovely orbs of perpetual light reflecting inside their eyes and their souls came to a bond as well. Those strong and determined organs were not broken, nor were they cursed in the ways so many others had succumbed to. Within their conversions of affectionate arms and lengthily seconds, veins tied together without the effects of marrow-shattering agony and unbearable melancholy. There was only growing love and the formation of a crystalline art form, its flesh dyed the finest of brilliant crimson.

The father and his daughter did not meet until their returns were created. One's chest something of a regretful wasteland and the opposite's a blossoming and boisterous garden, lavish within all its colorful blooms, wearing them upon luscious green vines as spectacular jewels.

But neither pair of eyes could detect those raw truths. They were sheathed in bone and pallid flesh.


	28. Chapter 28

"Anya?" The man contained trouble within his stomach but did not present it to his dear daughter, allotting for a fraction to escape upon his usually concerned face, but nothing more.

"Yes, Papa? What is it?"

"Will you spend today with Katya? She asked me if she could see you again and since we lied to her the last time…Well. I felt bad."

"Really? But papa, I want to spend today with _you_. Who does she think she is anyway? I only speak to her because _she_ insists on speaking. How can she expect me to go when I barely get any time with my papa?"

"I don't know, Miss Anya. But that's very sweet of you. It's only a few hours, and I did tell her you would go…Once you get back we can go and do something."

"_You already told her I would go?_ Papa; why? Why didn't I get to choose? It's _my_ day…"

"Because…I just looked into her eyes and-"

Anya interjected a heavy sigh, canceling her father's excuse. "_You're such a sucker_! You _never _look into their eyes! That's how you end up feeling guilty! Why didn't you just look at her boobs? They're the most obvious thing _to_ look at! She's probably so used to it, she wouldn't even notice!"

"Shh! Hush, Anya." Ivan was trying to laugh. "Please…Just do his for me. You might actually like her, and I promise, we'll do something fun together."

"…Well. Alright. But you should know that I'm not happy about this." That tall girl simply whined, sitting upon the bed she had only just risen from. "Do I at least get to pick my own clothing? Please tell me I can do that."

"Of course; it's not a formal occasion."

"…What time is she coming?"

"In about…" Sapphires coded one of the clocks hung upon a pleasant wall."Half an hour."

"_Half an hour?_ I have to take a bath and put on clothing and make-up and fake a smile! That takes a lot of time, you know!" Anya rushed into the shower, curses falling from her mouth as lighting from a darkened canvas. "Why didn't you wake me up sooner?"

"I love you, Anya!" There was bliss directed at that blatant performance of wondrous upset, the man holding his hand to those churning lips as though he was muffling a cough or a wheeze.

"I love you too, you sucker!"

The door closed, the girl flustered and the father devouring her struggles and turning them into mild amusement.

And she reemerged nearly twenty minutes later, hair dampened visage polished into that of a fabulous doll's. Her form held the flesh of a sapphire garment with a boisterous bow upon her middle and tights dappled with little black polka dots adhering to a creamy white surface and- of course- her red boots. A brush was dragged through those unruly, yet shimmering curls, pulling them back into a tight bun and securing them with a newer version of the edition she had thrown into a kind abyss.

And she stood against the threshold of that steaming realm, the woman so desiring her pretty company awaiting her upon the bed she had ruined only moments previously, wrapped within a far simpler attire, hers nothing but a button up shirt and a pair of black pants.

"Hello!"

"Hello!" Anya offered an assumed radiant grin. "You look nice."

"You look nice too. I like your dress."

"Thank you." Elegant hands secured to those innocent kneecaps, straightening out that malleable sapphire and folding her lips into a dainty grin.

"How long to you plan on renting Miss Anya for, Katya?"

"Only a few hours. Maybe two or three. I was hoping we could stop for lunch or something, although it's a bit early right now."

"Alright." Ivan went into his pocket and pulled away that battered wallet, allowing a portion of that small amount of currency to his darling girl. "Please don't be gone too long. I'll be here."

"Papa…"

"Go have fun, sweetheart. I love you." A kiss donated to that Russian girl's brightened cheek.

"I love you…Thank you."

Anya joined that Ukrainian woman who seemed to have such a determination built of passion to know her, rising far above that Katya's brow; their coupling was odd as they walked side by side.

Anya regarded her company with a curiosity as they traveled, uncertain of what words she should arrange within her throat, almost as though they were sparkling gems meant for the eyes of a certain royalty.

"Umm…"

"yes?"

"…What are we going to do?" Anya's voice came gently as a spring breeze drowning in the scent of lavender.

"Well, I don't know. What would you like to do?"

"Would you like to see a movie?"

"In England?"

A nod. "Do you speak English?"

"Only a little bit. My English is in need of improvement."

The tall girl oppressed her laughter. "That's alright. You're already fluent in two languages. And that's really good."

"Thank you. You're a very nice girl, Anya." For a moment, those light cheeks flushed. "Oh! I'm sorry. Can I call you that?"

"Please…I kind of hate my name anyway."

"Really? Why? I think it's pretty."

"Well, it's kind of boring, and common. I have some pride for being so strange, and when there's so many Annas running around…I don't know. I feel less special."

"I'm sorry…"

"That's alright. It's not like you named me or anything."

A silence saturated in invisible secrets.

"Do you have anything in mind?"

"I want to take you to lunch…But it's not lunch time yet."

"Maybe we can go shopping for a little while. At least look at things, and after that we can get something to eat."

"That sounds very nice."

So Anya and her mother moved about those English streets, glancing into those ancient stones and chatting as though they had known one another for several long years.

The girl took surprise at the blatant ease of that occasion, not expecting such comfort to be so high amongst that strange woman who wanted inhabitance desperately inside her soft heart.

And finally, they stopped for lunch inside a pleasant restaurant outside and created conversation as rich coffee settled within their stomachs.

"Anya, what would you like to do after you graduate?" A long river of thick substance falling inside the elder woman's throat.

"Well…I want to keep going to school, but I'd like to do something fun. Like maybe model for a while. Papa was so upset when I mentioned that to him…As for an actual job, I think I might want to be a translator…And I recently thought about teaching Russian in America…Maybe. But I don't know if any Americans would even want to learn Russian." Brows dipped. "I don't know. But I don't want to continue doing this job."

The opposite's words dropped heavy comment upon Katya's tongue. "_America?_ Why would you want to go there?" Eyes darted about that busy scene moving so rapidly around them, her voice drying to a bear whisper. "Anya, are you a capitalist?"

"What? No! No, no, no…I'm not."

"But why would you want to go _there? _Of all places?"

"Because I want to see it for myself." There was a frustrated sigh. "My father did the same thing…Have you ever lived in America?"

"Goodness no!"

"Well, how does that make you any more informed about their culture? I'm guessing you hate it, don't you?"

"Well-"

"You have them for being ignorant and stubborn, correct?"

"Yes…"

"Doesn't that seem a little ridiculous? How can anyone judge someone's way of life if they have never lived it themselves? We all say it's wrong but _no one_ is willing to see it in their own eyes. I don't hate Americans. I don't have a reason to; not yet. Why can't I be a communist and still like Americans? I'm not going to detest when there's not a use for it. That's too easy. And I hope they can find it in their hearts not to hate me when I speak with my accent and tell them I came from Russia. Because I'm a good person, and my heart's too warm to hate on command."

"I suppose that's fair. But you shouldn't get your hopes up too high. They feel the same way about us…Don't expect them to love you, even though you're kind."

"I don't."

"Well…" The Ukrainian woman came to her conclusions and swallowed them all as bitter medicine through a rich drink. "Good luck. It's a harsh world out there."

"It's a harsh world in here."

"Yes…"

And that kindly nymph converted her lips into a colorful line, feeling as though she had thrown spears when she only meant to toss words. "I'm sorry."

"That's alright…Do you have any other heart attacks for me?"

"Well…"

I smoke.

I'm not a serious communist.

I'm beginning to love an American.

"No…I don't think so."

"That's a relief."

They ate their lunch, Katya resisting that possessive urge to scream her maternal title and knock her supposed sense into that foolish dreamer's head. But her lips had been bound many times over with Ivan's scarlet threads, and her blood heated in all its nervous excitement.

Anya was returned as she was only hours previously while the woman who bared her was cast into a state of perpetual concern and want of a larger section within that fairy's frivolous life.

"Did you have fun, Miss Anya?"

"Yes, Papa. Thank you."


	29. Chapter 29

And after panicking her mother, the delinquent planned to do the very same to her dear father.

They had taken their return home and days took their expiration, the girl numbering her words and placing them against those falling shelves, all so willing to spill from her nervous throat.

Finally, her feet had brought her from that horrid school and she sat with Ivan, who was busy as he usually was with a plethora of ugly documentation and bored ink giving dull tattoos to dour parchment.

Ivan took a great guilt from Katya's obvious distress, but had not shown it. Whatever Anya had found within her hapless butterfly net, she released as simple stress from heavy work, the man usually exhibiting those very symptoms.

He knew her mother wanted the girl to know of those dark and sour origins, and there was a deep consideration against those actions, their duties branded as unfair, his mind soaking in a bath rich as wine of heavy guilt, all while thoughts scrambled for obvious solutions, but none of them truly seemed to be reachable options.

"Papa…"

"Yes, Anya?"

"I have to tell you something."

"What is it?" Ivan gave that girl sitting alone against that wide stage all of his attention.

"Oh…Will you promise not to slap me?"

"_Why?_ What are you going to tell me?" An immediate and fatherly panic set in easy as bread to the mouth of a starving man. "Are you pregnant?'

"No! No, Papa. I haven't even kissed anyone yet. How can I be pregnant?"

"So you're not pregnant?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Well…Then I suppose I won't slap you. What is it?"

"Umm…" She sighed, releasing mild anxiety. "I'm friends with Alfred."

And that expected strike came, leaving rouge against her unprepared cheek.

"Ah! Papa!"

"That's even worse! What the hell is wrong with you?"

A palm coaxed the girl's sore flesh. "I don't know…I'm sorry."

"Well…" His brows dropped and palms covered those suddenly listless eyes. "Does it get worse?"

"It…gets worse."

"Oh god. What?"

"Uh…We're kinda…Pen pals."

"Pan pals? _That American pig has our address?_ I should tear your stupid blond head from your neck! You didn't even ask me first! This isn't your house, Anna!"

"I know; I know…I'm sorry. But we haven't actually sent anything to one another. He wanted me to ask you first, to make sure you were alright with it."

Ivan laughed, his tone something cruel. "Really? Because I'm not! That bastard is probably going to send a fucking bomb! Are you kidding me?"

"I don't think you can send a bomb in the mail, Papa."

"Shut your mouth!"

And Anya did.

That enraged man took moments to breath. "Have you ever considered the idea that he might not like you? He could be using you to get to me! I wouldn't doubt it! He always plays these stupid games, expecting to get one on me! But I'll cut his fucking stomach open if he thinks it's going to work!"

"Papa! I'm the one who suggested we be pen pals! He's not trying to get to anyone!"

"How do you know? Have you read his mind? You're obviously best friends! You can tell what he's thinking, _can't you?_"

"No!"

"Then what the hell do you know?"

"At least I have my fucking eyes open! You're so consumed with hating everyone and everything that isn't exactly like you! Do you hate me because I'm not as Goddamn ignorant as you are? It's pretty fucking sad when you have to hate your own daughter just because she can't think in black and white like every other asshole walking around!"

"You better shut your mouth before I shut it for you, you ungrateful little bitch! You think you can do anything you want? That I'm only here to put food in your mouth? That my opinion is worth less than the shit flying from Alfred's tongue? Well, you're fucking _crazy_ if you think you can do whatever you like! I come before your stupid little friend, Anna! And you can drill that into your thick skull!"

"Fuck you! I only took the job to prevent your heart from getting broken anyway! I didn't want to do it in the first place, but you looked like you were going to cry like a Goddamn baby if I didn't!"

"What did you just say to me?"

"_I said fuck you!_"

And either stood across from one another, Ivan wielding his hand as a paddle, so ready to strike down that furious child just before his chin, and hard. Anya only stared at him, those jewels so full of ember unbroken in their blatant hatred. She was unwilling to back down and in far too deep to shrink into herself and offer that great legion of apologies that usually poured from pretty lips at even the slightest infraction.

"I should smack you down for that. How dare you? After everything I've done for you, and you say, 'Fuck you' to me…It would have been far easier for me to put you into an orphanage. But I fed you. And I taught you. And I made sure you were well taken care of when you had no one else…And you say 'fuck you'?"

Anya glared into her father's shattering marbles and saw that she had cut him far deeper than he allowed through that cracking mask. Fragments of light protruded from those bloodied scrapes, but he tried within his greatest power to keep them contained beneath those pathetic bandages, each remnant of gauze falling from those wounds as though they were nothing but sad tissue the entire duration.

His fire had been devoured by her own, and all he was left with was a face poorly repressing his scars and a stomach embellished in what he considered to be the greatest of loss.

But she was too proud to abandon those essence soaked daggers just yet. Anya could not surrender the heart she had savagely torn from that chest comprised of weak parchment. Passionate rage lived on within her rivers as snow upon that barren ground, and goodness, was it lavish.

Ivan's hand fell to his side, that battle ending nearly as soon as it had began, and he stared his ache into Anya's very soul. "You don't seem like my daughter any longer. Leave my home before I throw you out."

"Gladly." The exile took up her things scattered in strange organization around her chair and drifted through that seemingly haunted home, taking her escape through the porthole and slamming it behind her progressive sols. Her core writhed in the guilt she would not allow herself to feel, and into that snow, she dissipated as the phantoms she left her father to destroy.

Screaming and cold tears coursing along those bruised apples in all her deep frustration, hatred and love and choices and everything Anya was not allowed to make for herself. A label could not define that emotion that dominated her so ruthlessly, soul muddled in each of those wondrous and fetid things she had become.

And Anya walked to that abandoned church, a cigarette claiming sanctuary inside her bruised lips and a sloppy track left within that field of powder.

There would not be return that night.

Yet, she could accept that bitter cold.

She would have to.

Finally, that lost shelter was reached and the seeker entered it, great frustrations left within the frost developing upon ancient steps, and thin body resorting to that unkind bench, the only thing that new outcast possessed as a bed.


	30. Chapter 30

Ivan sat inside his chair, those windows soaking in their salt and pain. Words sank as a heavy blade into his scarred flesh, and there was nothing that could be done to quell that horrid burn so possessing that once unscathed surface.

His bloodied hands moved the mist from dirtied cheeks, and the man who held them only produced more of that crystalline sorrow. That girl had brutally amputated his heart and ran, with quick legs and fists saturated in his crimson. There was no forgiveness inside Anya's elegant hands, and the only thing she had left her dear father was aching confusing and bitter melancholy.

Their home had grown so much colder.

He had failed her, he had failed himself, and he had failed to keep the pain from his eyes, and that brought shame even heavier than all the weight already stacked against those breaking shoulders.

Ivan felt as though he was unloved, when he adored that bandit so heavily, without a single moment of that slight and accidental detest.

But as all bandits, she had taken all he kept and ran. Something told that robbed man she might not return for quite a while.

Perhaps he never truly had her in the first place. Anya was a girl with wings made from the finest of materials, unable to be bound by the even the strongest of chains, which she fought with vigor no one else possessed. And as expected, she had won, her feathers dappled in their bruises and her core triumphant and free.

There was regret for all those diatribes. He knew he had pushed that girl too far. Usually, that soul was so kind and docile; one would think she was incapable of producing such sharp daggers, and that mouth could not project such powerful acid.

Not until she had been forced into a corner.

Ivan felt as though he should not have yelled, at least, not with such ease. Of course friendships were made. Anya was a child with constitution of perpetual sunshine and warm honey. And as much as that man hated Alfred, he was not a dangerous sort of man, at least, not as dangerous as the friends she could be acquainting herself with. He held a good job and in the event something went wrong…

Well.

Ivan did not have to try with much determination to be intimidating.

He would have preferred that foolish nymph had followed his careful instruction, but he knew there was no contact upon those beating limbs. And he could not dictate who those sugary words were directed to; not when she was nearly an adult. Those wings would take her to America, regardless of all the force he was so willing to supply.

So truly, what was speaking to an American? Accented speech would serve hundreds of them.

And Anya was right.

One couldn't very well send a bomb in the mail.

Pain still touched his chest at her own barbed phrase, but he had done the same to her. And looking upon the incident, Anya was not a bitch, nor was she stupid; if anything she was a girl and brief instances of ill-judgment were expected.

A stomach soured for that overbearing anger, even though the holder was indeed somewhat justified.

And now that fairy queen was gone, and her keeper held no idea where she had run to.

Time passed and her presence was desired, so Ivan would know she was safe, so she would not be under the claws of relentless harm, so he could apologize and receive an apology in return and their lives could return to the way they had been.

A cigarette was lit in an unwanted freedom, for the one smoking it knew his only possible witness was too stubborn to return. Perhaps she would even require days.

In his thoughts, the man closed his listless eyes, and with a writhing stomach and quick mind, he formulated thought, as he would late into that night and even more so when his exalted doll did not return.


	31. Chapter 31

Anya awoke next to her father, her gorgeous hair a mess and her clothes kept in a ruined knot of creases. Immediate surprise came into her quick flowing blood and that seemingly harmless girl rose, glancing to the man who so threatened her days previously.

"Hello, Father."

"Hello Anna."

"How did you find me?"

"I followed your footprints…I thought you would have stayed at a friend's house."

"I don't have a lot of friends…"

Long silence killed words as a great disease and scrambled them inside those well occupied minds. Ivan was the first to cure that perceptive illness.

"Anna, I'm sorry…I overreacted. You know how I feel about Alfred, but I've did some thinking and I've decided that I can't tell you who you can and can't speak with. You're getting older, and soon enough, you'll be doing whatever you please regardless of what I have to say. So I'm not going to forbid you from speaking with him, but I would have preferred you told me sooner. And asked before you gave away our address. But…It's done now. I don't want to be angry anymore and I'd like you to come back home, where at least I know you won't be mugged by a smelly homeless man." There was a sad sort of smile and a few seconds taken from that careful man. "I'm sorry I insulted you. I didn't mean anything that I said. I love you, and I was just speaking from anger and panic and-well…You know how I am."

"Yes…I do."

"Well, I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Papa." Anya regarded her father with eyes soaked in their forgiveness and regret. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean what I said either. You started to yell and then I started to yell and things got out of hand. But I didn't want to hurt you, because I love you too. So I'm sorry…You're not ignorant. You've just made up your mind and I can respect that. After all, I still need to make up mine. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. Part of me thought it wasn't such a big deal and the other part was afraid of upsetting you…Still, I should have mentioned something before I had given Alfred our address, at least. I wasn't really thinking…"

Ivan kissed the cheek he had made sore. "That's alright. You're young. I would be foolish not to expect you to be stupid sometimes. I was."

"_You _were stupid? I don't believe that…"

"It's true. Hell, sometimes I'm still stupid. But you're cute. At least you can get away with it…But not too much."

"Thanks, Papa."

Their minds churned a short duration.

"Did you go to school yesterday?"

Anya had been missing an entire set of hours before her father had come to claim her from the depths of near homelessness. She was far too obdurate to allow those long legs to take her back, regardless of the emotion and apologies choking her and falling into that sickening stomach as a pot of boiling and potent spices.

"Yes, I did."

"Are you going to school today?"

"…I don't really want to."

"Well, alright." Ivan stood, giving Anya's backpack relief from that frozen floor and slinging upon his wide shoulder blades.

"Why don't we go home and you can change your clothes? I'll make you something to eat, and then we can go to the movies. But don't get used to it. I'm supposed to send you to school…I figure I can be a bad father every once in a while. We'll call it a personal day, how about it?"

Instead of projecting that resident happiness embellishing her throat, Anya simply stood and enveloped that large man inside her warmest embrace and held him as though it would be the very last instance they were to meet.

"Oh, Papa! I'm so proud! _You're learning!_ After all these years and I've made a breakthrough! I could cry!"

"Yes, yes. Hurry up before I change my mind."

"Thank you."

"I love you, Miss Anya."

"I love you too."

The pair descended from that worn church and allowed their feet home, bleeding wounds healing and apologies sent as wondrous gauze against those lacerations. Despite their arguments, there was still affection inside those melting hearts, grown so wholly together. They held no one else so dear. Not even a ludicrous American could break such a friendly binds, at least, not for too long.

Footsteps in the opposite direction conquered old welds left by their singular sols.


	32. Chapter 32

She had breached those borders and her lungs had filled in foreign air, her breaths now the property of that lovely France. A heart had been embellished with jewels of beaming mirth, not only because form was kept inside one of those destined fantasies, but because time had expired beneath busy hands and awful schooling had come to its death.

Anya had tended to that duty for months and had indeed gotten used to traveling and hotel rooms and those dour meetings, which she had hardly managed to pay her priceless focus to. More visits were granted to Katya's insatiable desires, and that unsuspecting child was growing to like the woman she was so near too, yet so distant from. That Ukrainian had her ridiculous moments and all her entertaining mistakes, but Anya did as well. Attention was pressed to those odd similarities, yet the girl labeling them in such beautiful letters did not have even a slight suspicion of relation. After all, acquaintances like that glistening youth had been erected before, and she and her near mother were simply of compatible personalities.

And that girl so saturated in her rays found herself sitting next to that American man who had become her dearest pen pal. Letters were sent between them as water flows inside a starving vat, constantly soaking either world so differing in their opinions and caught centrally within that brutal war that truly held no deaths.

But within those ridiculous and horrid boundaries, Anya still found unfettered love for her darling companion, not allowing her mind to his capitalism, or his tanned and lovely flesh, or that nearly endearing habit of junk food. Those azure marbles of excellent glass only saw that whole and magnificent smile, although so many other qualities proved to be just as brilliant and just as tempting.

And she loved him.

Although she would not grant those very words to her own knowledge, and fought against that heavy truth with every fraction of her communist soul, she did love him. She _wanted_ to love him; she wanted to be _allowed_ to love him, but with such restrictions and hideous protocol, she could not. Luck was found even at their mere communication, a locket of purest gold sitting amongst a pile of vulnerable dirt. Anya knew her father would tear the affection from her thin body the moment it took a happy residence there.

But those two sat together, hands resisting the urge to mingle and their lips trying not to meet.

"You know Alfie, I really missed you since the last time I saw you."

"You did? How? I sent you a ton of letters."

"I know, but I still did. A letter is like a small piece of candy when the whole bowl is sitting only a short way away. You'll always want more."

Alfred smiled to her and pressed his kindly mouth to that reddened cheek. "Thank you, Anya."

And that flushed girl only smiled and gave her mouth gently to her counterpart's visage, leaving her signature in a small and ruby smear. "Oh gosh…I always get lip stick on you. I'm sorry…"

"That's alright. I don't mind."Alfred licked his thumb and sent away that evidence of honeyed affection, giving genuine simper to the young woman at his side.

"Alfie?"

"Yes, Anya?"

"Do you think it's alright if we kiss this way?"

"Well…" That gorgeous face was taken in a moment, face so embellished in its shy colors, stocked by that beating heart. "It's not like I'm kissing you on the lips or somewhere I really shouldn't be. It's just your cheek."

"I know."

"Does it make you feel uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable? No…I like to kiss you. I just don't know if I should."

"Why not?"

"Well-You already know why, you silly American!"

"_Really?_ Then why?" That ludicrous man leaned towards her, a ridiculous grin strewn about his brightened cheeks. "You silly Russian."

"You just said it. I'm Russian and you're American. And I'm Ivan's daughter."

"So you're super Russian?"

Anya laughed. "Super Russian? You mean like a comic book hero? I could probably wear a cape well." Bliss took possession of that glowing frame. "No…I'd rather be a super villain."

"_What?_ You can't be a super villain! You're too damn nice!"

"Yes I could! I'm…mean. Sometimes." That orifice wove to murder that incoming smile built of her own girlish foolishness. "Besides, all super villains start nice! Then something happens that makes them evil. They're more interesting anyway."

"Well, fine. What would you dress in?"

"Black with sunglasses and gloves." Shared grins. "What would you be?"

"A hero! And I would dress in red, white and blue, with really long cape-!"

Anya interrupted that dreaming man. "You're such a kid!"

"So what?" Alfred beamed that curl. "You are too."

"I know. It's not a bad thing. I like you better that way." Elegant fingers secured that strand of wild blond blooming so obnoxiously from her counterpart's brow. "You're my best friend, Alfie. I'm supposed to like you."

"_I'm your best friend?_"

"Yes." Another one of those gorgeous contractions, the girl holding it allowing that cowlick free. "Does that surprise you?"

"A little bit." That shimmering apple was pecked. "Do you have a lot of best friends?"

"No. Just one."

"And that's me?"

An affirmative nod.

"Well, you're my best friend too."

"Do you have a lot of best friends?"

"No, just one." A kiss against her susceptible brow.

"Alfie, you didn't answer my question."

"I thought you would know by now."

And she did. In all her joy, Anya allotted those attractive lips to her darling's cheek, wishing with every chamber of that strong heart to be taken into an embrace as their mouths came into a sugared reunion. But naturally, such thoughts were slaughtered before they were even given their natural childhood by the lovely hand of the woman who so created them, and had indeed truly desired their existence.

"Well anyway, before I was interrupted, I would also have a six pack and rippling arm muscles. I could fly too! And shoot laser beams from my eyes and make things spontaneously combust!" Alfred imitated an explosion and continued rambling. "And I would have all of these awesome weapons that could defeat my enemies, like super tasers and gloves that make my fists turn into steel!"

Before that ridiculous set of wondrous powers could be completed, the girl turned red in all her joy, palms sitting before flaming cheeks, noise breaking through those shields of lovely flesh composing her ill formed mask.

"You're so red."

"I know." Laughter. "Shut up."

Finally, that visage converted to a ripe cherry returned to its normal hue and the soul trapped behind it managed to quell the excitement building inside her helpless stomach.

"What would your hero name be?"

And that hero of boyish fantasy thought. "Bad Ass."

"Bad Ass?" Giggling. "You mean like an ass that's…bad?"

"No! Bad ass is a good thing in English. It's like…Awesome or…" Blond brows furrowed. "It's hard to explain."

"Oh I see." More of those reddened cheeks and a stomach lavish in joyous upset. "You teach me so many productive words. Gut, Unibrow, Bad ass. Very important. Papa would be proud."

"Damn right he would be!"

"Damn right? I have to write these things down. It's too much to remember."

"I'm sorry. I'll write notes for you."

"Thank you."

A short and comfortable silence.

"…Alfie, Are you coming to dinner tonight?"

"Would you like me to?"

"…I always have fun when you show up."

"Alright, then I'll go."

"Thank you. Can I do something for you?"

The American calculated his answer. "Will you make me a cake?"

"_I can't make you a cake! _We're in France! How can I make you a cake?"

"Not _now._ When you can."

"_When I can? _Are you going to visit me?"

"Well, maybe. Maybe you'll visit me. I don't know where the next meeting is. But if it's in Russia, you can bake me a cake, can't you?"

"I suppose I could…"

"Are you a good cook, Anya?"

"I think I am. I can make a cake." A smile. "Why? Do I look like I can't cook? Well, you're wrong if that's what you think, you silly American."

"I didn't say that…But everyone knows that skinny women can't cook."

"_What? _Yes we can!"

"If you say so."

They argued and laughed until that meeting tore them from their mirth and compiled obligation about their innocent hands. It was as it had always been, and as they always had, they separated as they stole away their places, joyous of their friendship and holding bitter melancholy for their separation.


	33. Chapter 33

So, they all sat within the same circle as a collection of fantastic dolls, all dressed in their ashen tones. Their counterparts were the same, speech the same and expressions the same, as though they had never truly left that grand hall and were hindered a short duration; they were meant to sit there in their lovely wears their entire lives.

Anya waited for that gleaming opportunity to mingle, knowing her dear American was attending, and his spectacled company was awaited as a fresh morning of dew soaked spring.

She wondered how any other could find happiness inside that room so saturated in its own boredom.

Yet, her true inquiries never came into that flooded air; they welled and grew weighty, as they had a habit of doing, and the girl housing them was too distracted to notice the very sound of her own title.

"Anna!"

"Huh? What?" She found Katya, who wore a grin curled in the essence of the other's foolery, that representation tight as her very dress. "I'm sorry. Did you need something?"

"Oh no…I was just going to ask you if you wanted to spend the day together again. I've already asked your father about it and he says that it would be alright."

"Oh, sure. I've wanted to see France a long while now, so going out would be great."

"Wonderful. I'll come find you tomorrow."

"Thank you."

And new thought occupied that over inhabited brain.

Finally, anticipated time came as an ordered gift inside a heavy mailbox, and Anya wondered into its gentle embrace, heart wide and expectations set as words written in the most exalted of stone. That Russian girl chased her American, curious legs leading her even deeper into that gaping rabbit hole.

Ivan was once again abandoned for a more fascinating companion.

And in that loneliness, he found Katya, who was in an identical saddened state.

Memories came flooding back.

The man recalled that night they had both been so lonesome, and in that cosmos of frost bite and bitter cruelty, they had created warmth and affection neither had truly experienced for years stacked as a great collection of books written to bore.

He wondered why they had fought with such an intense and impassioned rage, and why they were so meant to hate as uncontrollable animal possessed in the heat of war and blood lust.

When for a point in time, they had been in such honeyed infatuation, eyes connecting as bonding atoms and hearts melting into one another's as easy crimson wax.

It was so horridly despondent…and from that battered love came the most fertile of flowers.

A bloom that did not know of her true parents or even the fact that her mother had met her eyes so many instances before, and yet, their ties were not that of a family's. Katya was another visage in a sea of soulless mannequins, another ghost who could not exhibit her true glisten; that lovely blossom would never witness that hidden light, kept inside a jar wrapped in darkened tape.

And through Ivan's life, he had wondered who his parents were. Perhaps he never truly took ownership of them. It seemed as though his wells had simply opened to a frigid room and an abused old man; he had risen from the bare soil as a screaming sprout, only to be stepped upon and treated less than the brilliant growth he was.

He did not know where that name had originated, or who had assigned it to him. Perhaps he was born and someone had written it against his brow, only to leave him to that miserable sphere without a single explanation.

And it was so wrong.

The fault Ivan had rolled against that woman's shoulders affected that man just as heavily. Neither had been willing to try, and all it had caused was shattered cores and soured lives, that darling pedestrian so unsure of how those deep welds inflicted her innocent body.

It was far too late.

That man stepped forward, standing next to the woman who had lost such considerable diamonds and who had allotted for so much of that perpetual sunshine known as Anna. She was so maltreated, not only by his angered fists, but by so many others.

"Hello, Ivan."

"Hello, Katya."

Silence.

"…Ivan?"

"Yes?"

"I think we should tell our daughter who she is. She's almost an adult now…And quite honestly; pretending I'm just another one of your acquaintances is tearing my heart to bits. We've had hard lives. But that doesn't mean hers has to be difficult as well. It must be so painful, not even knowing her mother, and look. I'm standing right here."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Yes…I do." Those azure marbles of such damaged glass mixed with the woman's. "You're right. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. We should have told her long before now. It's only fair that she knows. Because you _are_ standing right in front of her. How can you hide someone when you can see them so easily? She's almost done growing up…I can't treat her like a child forever."

And mouths drowned inside their rigid words, phrase knocking against their teeth as furious waves upon an active ocean, incoherent and churning in all their energies.

"…Katya?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"…I am too. We should have tried to work things out…It's a shame. But I don't blame you. It would have been beyond hard to have a half mother. I'm certain that if she did know me, there would be years when we hadn't seen one another. She would hate me no matter what I had done." And muted tears befell those healthy lashes, so many years feeding that fractured woman their melancholy. "I just hope Anya won't be angry for too long."

"Whatever the case, she'll be alright. She's a strong girl."

"I know she is."

Another installment of careful thought.

"When would you like to tell her?"

"…The next meeting. We should both be there." Ivan gave his reply. "I'd like some time to think."

"…I'd like that as well."

Solemn and affirmative nods.

"Thank you, Ivan. I'm sorry thing occurred the way they did."

Regards found one another as a pair of pretty doves who had searched so desperately. They fell into an overdue embrace the entire world had turned away from, emotions bleeding as wounds given in a brutal war, and that needed resolve finally constructed.

Ivan and Katya did not love one another, but hatred had been given its death, and finally after eighteen torn years, they stepped forward.


	34. Chapter 34

When Katya came to claim that darling bloom, Ivan pretended as though they had not spoken of such tender matters the night before, or even at all. That pretty young woman simply ran away with her mother, blindly following as though she had been subjected to lobotomy.

There was surprise at that intelligent young fairy queen had not even made the slightest hypothesis of who that woman could have been. However, when one suspects someone to be long gone, they do not anticipate even the oddest of visits.

He watched them go, hoping those truths would not slip from Katya's mouth, because he wanted to tell her, and he wanted to embrace her as she cried from bitter upset, as she likely would, and he wanted to allow apologies to leak from his mouth as the finest of silks from a golden factory, mirroring the emotions that would rush from either of their mouths and eyes. He wished to be there, as he always was, because despite those hideous untruths and deep covers, he loved his daughter, so unlike any other set against that world of conformity, and truly, she was the diamond inside that bin of cremated ashes. Anya came as a brilliant light from utter darkness and almost seemed as the goddess of miracles.

…At least, to Ivan she did.

Without that darling sunflower, his home would be all too occupied with harmful thought and searing memory, taking their births inside his lonesomeness. She was golden, beautiful, glistening, and a needed medicine to an aching soul, something so rare and wondrous the man felt as though he would be nothing without her presence; he would still be that sad leper rotting inside his own regrets.

Anya had defined his value so many times before within those kind words and morphing lips moved by a perpetual glow kept inside that passionate heart. No one had donned him such priceless statements, all those other words composed of fetid dung and horrid plague.

Perhaps he had given her a difficult time inside those playful jokes, but there was not a soul that held such greatness to him, and all those idiotic valuables mattered scarcely within his home, and were constructed of mere dust and plastic compared to that lovely creature.

Ivan was nothing without her.

Because she had removed that daggered nothingness.

With that mighty heart, he hoped that the sought truth brought about so many times and shoved away as a malcontent would not engender her imminent hatred.

To have Anya hate him would bring the death of his breathing soul, which had been broken far too many times previously.

Inside his thoughts, Ivan found the porch and glanced into those active French streets, so filled with the sound of foreign communication and fantastic pastries, indulgence hanging about that gorgeous city as perfume dosed against the flesh of an expensive woman.

A cigarette found purpose between two lips and their commander regarded that heavenly sky spotted by gorgeous clouds of pliable feathers, and the Russian pleaded for strength, and he pleaded for time, and he pleaded for the sake of his daughter, who had not accomplished noisome enough goals to achieve that heavy mallet that would so easily fall against her skin, the texture and sensitivity of a thin shell, its pigmentation the happiest and most vibrant of azure tones.

Ivan did not wish to shatter that fragile vase, but he was well aware that he was walking upon a thin tight rope, and his survival would mean her tragic fall.

But still, hope was kept at close proximity, just as it accompanies a man close to his death, however pointless that sentiment may be.

Anya returned to a sleeping man, his thoughts eating away his energy as well as that precious sanity.

A kiss was pressed to his unresponsive cheek, and the girl left her father to his rest, allowing her worry in return.


	35. Chapter 35

The two returned with thoughts slamming in angry waves against their skulls, tongues caught inside unfortunate knots and throats drowning within their dry words. Too much distraction had been placed and the pair did not take notice of the other's perpetual trouble, far too focused upon their own gathering conundrums.

While Ivan gave his energies to the concern of telling his daughter of what had transpired all of those vacated years ago, Anya simply devoted her soul to fighting imminent affection that was growing against her as mold against aging bread. She knew she should not harbor such pretty thought for her darling American, regardless of her heart's blatant and silenced protests.

And it was though they had become blind, hostage by their own fiascos and distasted by their own blood, far too deep in the grips of pain to even afflict their gazes to the other's spill.

After a week of near silence, the girl finally allotted her voice from the back of her throat.

"Papa? What's the matter?"

"What? Oh nothing, Anya. I've just been busy lately. Well, you know. You're there."

"I know, but is there something else bothering you? You look like you've been thinking so often and…Well, I was wondering what about."

"It's really nothing."

Quiet befell their lips as the needle to fabric, but only for a moment, neat squares fraying and threads left shredded and broken.

"Papa…"

"Yes?"

"I know when you have something important on your mind; really. I'm not going to be angry with you if you did something necessarily bad. You're my papa, but you have your own life too."

"Please, Anya. It's nothing to be so concerned about. It's just work and stress. And I'm beginning to feel old. There's just too much to deal with at the moment."

"Well, Alright. When you _really_ want to tell me what it is, I'll listen."

Ivan only released compacted air, that lovely child having been created in a substance far too clever. His tricks and the interior of his very thoughts had been recorded and kept as thought they were shimmering bits of perfect information, and that file keeper had memorized each line. At times, Ivan could not even wrap his fingers around those soaking lies that he had managed to teach her so well, having spilled within tailored costumes and quick shoes.

"You really are a pain, Anya. Can't you pretend to believe me?"

"No, Papa. I won't lie to you."

"Well, I'm not going to tell you. It's a lot of things. But don't worry about me. I'll be alright."

A moment was embellished in consideration. "…Do you have a secret girlfriend, Papa? Is she a bitch? Is that why you're upset?"

"No Anya. My secret girlfriend isn't a bitch."

"So you _do_ have a secret girlfriend?"

"No, I don't." Ivan gave that girl a small grin and stood, trying to evade her glaring spotlight, yet, she followed as the faithful watchdog against those ruined criminals.

"Are you terminally ill?"

"No Anya. I'm fine."

"Are you certain?"

"Well, you're making me insane, but I'm sure that with years of therapy I'll be alright."

"Oh." Laughter. "I'm sorry, Papa."

"That's alright."

Seconds of silence progressing in plans kept secret.

"So…Are you on a wanted list and the government is looking for you, but you know that they're getting closer and there's nothing you can possibly do about it but wait…And they're going to come for you in your sleep and take you away and throw me into some kind of horrible orphanage. Oh! Maybe I can escape the orphanage after stealing a gun from the head master who isn't supposed to have it and come save you with a make-shift rescue squad! And we would break in and beat up the guards that carry around machine guns just with our amazing Kung-fu skills and-"

"Anna! Anna. I'm not on any wanted list, I promise you."

"Then what is it?"

"Noting, sweetheart." A kiss against that weighted brow.

"But…You look so sad and like you've been thinking about something troubling. I just want to make sure you're alright, Papa. Is it really just work?"

"Yes, it is."

Those lips churned and conformed to a sour line, unsure of the thoughts they should sponsor. The girl attached to those writhing petals only observed her father's eyes, saturated in necessary lie and troubles tearing his heart into ugly fragments. Anya could see them, those mangled truths and that shattering core, but as clear as they were, they did not come with labels as to why their constitutions were so mal formed, nor why there was such difficulty in hiding inside those shallow reasons.

But the fact that there would be no unfettered words was accepted, and that fairy queen moved on, despite her true concerns wrapping around her father as bandages to a still bloodied wound.

"Anya, I'm going for a walk. Would you mind organizing my papers while I'm gone? You know how they go."

"Of course, Papa. I will."

"Thank you." Another edition of stamped affection, and either body separated, the man wading towards that heavy door and that curious nymph to her duties set so conveniently before busy finger blades.

"I love you, Papa!" Her voice called from the kitchen, but as it was inducted into her father's willing ear, the timing was far too late, and his response met a closed door.

As Anya sorted through those tedious documents, imagination gave so much to that man's faux conditions and his secretive troubles, her state truly in a vat of suffocating worry for his bare existence.

Certainly, he had taken these moments before, but there were not nearly as long, nor as weighty. There was something deep within that heart Ivan would not allow before that child's wondrous light, knowledge grinding his bones to mere powder and yet, those feet continued walking, and he bared that mighty boulder as a bare sheet of parchment.

And Anya's heart held pain, thinking she was too immature to share that great burden, whatever it may have been; to feel so much amorous emotion for someone and to receive so little trust from their beating chambers stung as the sharp end of an aggressive sword.

But Anya dissolved those instances of brief discomfort before they consumed her, accepting her father's empire of bureaucratic secrecy and throwing all her curiosity into their shallow graves.

Besides, that information would come; it only required patience, as bitter as that medicine was…

When that quick job of organization had meant its end, Anya sat outside and pulled one of those cigarettes from her purse, poising it between pretty lips and setting it to addicting ember.

And a sigh rose from those dirtied lungs, her tired eyes meeting their colorful lids and her scarlet mounds parting gently; almost as though her soul had drifted from that sleeping form and into a great and relaxing current.

"I wish you would just tell me the truth, Papa." A long inhale. "You think I can't handle it. But maybe I already know…"

Anya took that sickening little roll from between her elegant mounds and set her eyes against it, watching as that grey cloud took life from those dying embers.

"We both have too many secrets. I wish I didn't smoke…He'll die when he finds out."

That thin body stood and the girl kept inside it made her way towards the mailbox, knowing Ivan was too distracted to pull those desiccating letters from their compartment; she removed Alfred's words.

"And there's this thing I have for you, you stupid blond. When Papa finds out how much I like you, he'll die, come back and straggle me…And it's all your fault." An adoring thumb stroked the flesh of lovely manila and that lonesome doll's heart burst into a fiery combustion of shy feeling.

"And you don't even know."

Anya went back to her habitual thought and silence, just as that man had done so many paces from her.


	36. Chapter 36

While Ivan sat staring into the dead eyes of empty space, Anya lied within that bed of warm water, crystals of vibrant blue contaminated by a ceiling so dull and placid, her colorful heart could have screamed. That letter from her darling Alfred sat within his hand which was not yet affected by the vat's moistness, and her core welled, acceptance and realization twisting within her chest and stomach as a truth built of unavoidable plague, and she could not run from those coughs, those boils, those binds that held her so softly and so closely as the chains her father gently strangled her with. Her palms were left open and writhing, but held nothing but a bitter air.

Anya finally comprehended what so many around her had before. There was someone she wanted to call darling, someone she wanted to embrace and hold and make love to, someone she wanted to pour her glittering affection into, and someone who she wanted to that gorgeous sentiment from.

And she had fought, dear God, how she had fought. Yet, that great war of either side of her heart came to pointless end. Love is an undeniable and uncontrollable force; finally, as that dam had shattered, her soul had lost its protection and drowned within those brilliant and crimson waters so embellishing life and vigor, and no part of that possessive chain survived those violent currents, allowing that dying girl some part of her late freedom.

Anna Braginski loved Alfred F. Jones. She loved his smiles; she loved his sunshine, and she loved his gut so laced in little golden hairs and a slight amount of endearing weight. She loved his jeans and his sneakers and she loved his smell- that scent of earth and brilliance and the screaming intentions of good locked inside his heart as though it was a valuable safe. She loved every bit of that American man, and with the fibers of her earnest being, she wanted him for herself. No other woman could lay a finger upon him, and no other could even attempt to hold him as she would, so near and so precious. Alfred was the exalted jewel she had sought after such burning duration, after so many bitter experiences of seeing lovers kiss, after so many nights spent wishing for someone more than herself, she had found what she wanted.

That purpose was not to find love, but to find success so an intelligent mind could be utilized to the best those outstretching abilities and make something wonderful of the fairy that held them, as the caterpillar lavish inside a perfect chrysalis, but every life yearns for love. And Anya was no different.

So much of that kind being had been overpopulated by affection, but a section was far empty, that space meant to house the love of another, and it seemed to devour her small fraction by small fraction, becoming a slow black hole and beginning in its carful manor to devour her alive.

And that gorgeous creature wished she could receive such nectar form that revered man, her amorous intent so brimming of promises and sacred pacts, anything would be given for that syrup sweet as honey and just as rich.

Yet, That creature felt as though she was made to resist those wondrous emotions, set as hideous traps hungry for the destruction of a glorious soul, traps not created by the man placed beneath such adoration, but by that society and the nymph's very father, who detested the simple idea of their hands causing communication through pretty ink and parchment tattooed by the kisses of innocent friendship.

Anya knew she was not to have him.

And that is why she fought her raw feeling with such battered fists and rusted swords. Bruises found residence upon her flesh all for an epic showdown she was not made to win, nor have participation in the very first instance.

But there that fairy queen was, her knuckles brass and her jaw broken and bleeding, the opponent larger and well crueler than she.

And those weapons made their sad attempts, giving that girl her poor chances and a vat of secretive water, all made for swallowing those horrid loses as poison and healing those heavy wounds.

Inside that bed of steam and damp embraces, those phrases recorded so sloppily against happy parchment were brought as pretty sacrifices to her eyes, and as she read, her opponent took another stab at her tarnished flesh, a relentless drive bringing tears into those eyes so synthesized from her father's sapphire glass, the same fragments she would trade for any other hue, anything besides her place, even a ticket into that land surrounded by rumors of freedom and bliss.

Anya dropped her message sent as the most glamorous of gifts and placed hands before those twisting mounds, blossoms conveying something she felt so tempted to hide even from her own gaze.

Those azure jewels flooded. And the barer of that inheritance took sorrow in a great attempt of silence, so afraid of waking that mighty giant sleeping only a short distance from that paper-thin door.

Anya held strong affection for someone she should never had been acquainted with, and no matter how those brutal writings against that noisome brick were attempted to be erased, they always found ways of returning, each inside a louder font and a greater truth.

And her blood wept, knowing there was nothing she could do but suffer quietly in all her honeyed loyalty, having waited so long for the one item she would never be able to take full possession of.

Within that shimmering love, there was pain brought by Alfred F. Jones, who held a sobbing heart within his benevolent, and yet mighty palm.

And all Anya could do was whisper her pitiful admissions of innards gone uncensored; praying those ears set so far away could devour them as truth.

"I love you. I love you so much…"

That Russian girl did not leave her tub for well over an hour.


	37. Chapter 37

Anya accepted her adoration as one embraces the tragic fall of a loved one, her shoulders far too tired from carrying that enormous weight. It was set before her and wrapped in a pair of kind arms, a heart dried of all its bitter pain and tears evaporated from those sleepy eyes.

It did not matter the circumstances, because there was truly nothing that could offer that well needed cure. Anya loved Alfred, and perhaps, he loved her in return. It could not be helped, whether she be Russian or Ukrainian or anything else. He was an American. And her hands were more than willing to devour that shimmering gold they had been offered.

And as that fairy queen healed, her father became even sicklier, frames outlined by a persistent insomnia and flesh placid as deep snow in winter. Numerous times, he had been asked what had occurred to create such a plague, and numerous times, the man had almost divulged those glowing words of toxic truth, but he refused to allow those doves from their black cages so composed of barbwire and the man's blood for twisting those follicles so many years.

Eventually, that worried creature abandoned her attempts and became satisfied with the answer, "Don't worry about it," or, "It's nothing to be concerned with."

Even though he father had become a shell, welling with nothing but concern and all for known reasons.

Somehow, weeks had passed and another meeting arrived. Yet, no packing was done.

"Anna…"

"Yes, Papa?"

"We have another meeting today."

"…What? Do you mean a small meeting?"

"No…It's here."

"Are…_Are we going to your office?_"

"Yes. But you know how big that building is."

"Yes, I do…Papa?"

"Yes?" Tired eyes expressed such severe emotions suffocating that worn man.

"Please, tell me what's wrong. _Please_…I'm so worried about you. You look sick, and you're hardly eating; you've lost weight. Not a lot, but I do notice. I _know _there's something bothering you. Papa, please. Just tell me you're not dying, and that you're alright. Just tell me that it's not some horrible disease or _something._"

"I'm not sick, Anna."

"Will you please tell me what's been bothering you?"

Ivan glanced to his shoes, and then those jewels radiating such a benevolent stare, somehow burning holes into his nearly shattered exterior.

"Did you get someone pregnant or something? Because if that's the case, it's alright…I might be upset for a while, but I'll be a good sister."

"I didn't get anyone pregnant."

"_Then what happened?_"

"I'm going to tell you today. But not right now…We're going to the meeting first, and when we return home, I'll tell you. Alright?"

"…Alright. Papa, have I done something wrong?"

"No. It's everything I've done. You'll understand."

"Well…"

"Anna."

"Yes?"

"You might be angry with me. No. I'm sure you will be. But I want you to know that I love you. I've always loved you, and everything that I've done has been for your well-being…So please remember that."

"Papa, it's not that serious, is it?"

Ivan did not give that hungry child words, yet she was allowed the answer she was so desperately seeking.

"Well…" Anya sighed. "I'm going to get dressed now. I'm afraid for you. Because I truly hope this isn't something awful…but I have to get ready. I know standing here isn't going to change anything."

And that gorgeous young woman went away, leaving that man to his concern and all his dejection.

Ivan and Anya came to that great building wrapped inside their finest attire, either dying inside an epidemic of utter silence, choking upon words that should have been thrown from tongues centuries ago. Yet, those phases left so glorious in their old age rotted inside throats so disgusting with lies, Ivan's filled with the ache he would offer his daughter as tea cakes upon a silver platter and Anya's lost inside those sugared words she had expressed so many times, gathered from all the opportunities required in secret. There was not a brilliant admittance of love or compliment.

Their chests wept.

The moment they stepped through those busting doors, Ivan vanished into that boisterous party, leaving his daughter to defend herself wearing only a meaningful press upon her naked brow, as a magnificent broach against a venerated collar.

And Anya's waist underwent embrace, her mind a thousand paces from the one behind her.

"Hello!"

"Ah! Alfie! Don't you do that!" The Russian girl briefly dropped her woes as though she had omitted an expensive vase and turned to the man who had requested its destruction, emotion swelling of a new cause. With a laugh, she spoke. "Hello…"

"Hello." A kiss. "How have you been? You haven't answered my letter yet."

"I know." A gentle tinge set to his cheek. "I've had so much on my mind lately. I just wasn't sure what to say accept sad things, so I thought I should wait until there was good news."

"Well, what happened? Is everything alright?"

"I hope so. Papa has been so depressed lately and he wouldn't tell me why. But it hasn't just been lately, it's been weeks. He's going to tell me today, but…I've been losing my mind over him so long that I have no idea what it could be. Maybe he's ill, or maybe he got some girl pregnant, or maybe he's going to lose his job. I don't know. He always tells me not to worry about it, but how can I not worry? He hasn't been eating lately and he always looks so tired, and to watch him, having no idea what's been wrong for so many days…I'm nervous. Because I can just feel that something is horribly off."

"Well…He's probably not going to lose his job, and if he was truly sick, he would be at the hospital…I bet he needs to tell you something important and perhaps even urgent, but he doesn't know how. And since today is the day he's finally going to let you know, well…I would be nervous too, especially if he's known for a while. I don't blame you for being concerned. But don't start losing hair over it, especially when you have no idea what it is. You can rip as much out when you find out, but for now…Just take it easy."

"Take it easy?" those pretty lips dented into that sweet smile. "You're right. I shouldn't be so worried. Not yet, anyway. I'm sorry I didn't answer your letter."

"That's alright. I was really more concerned that good ol' Vanya told you that you couldn't speak to me anymore."

"'_Good ol' Vanya?_'" A bit of mirth. "Do you call him that to his face?"

"_Well_…Only when we're fighting. But you know. That's pretty much all the time."

More bliss found escape from those joyous formations. "It's no wonder why he complains about you so much. I would invite you to my house, but…Papa wouldn't appreciate that. I'm sorry."

"That's alright. I understand." That sunny grin that captivated her so many times before. "Do you live near here?"

"Oh, yes! I'm at walking distance. It's a long walk, but it can be done. Besides, it's good for you anyway." That lovely girl displayed her brilliance inside a mere twist. "How do you like it so far? It's odd to see you so close to home. Whenever I think of you, you're always far away."

"Well, it's very…Russian. And I haven't taken a bullet yet, so that's always nice."

A playful reprimand. "Who would shoot you, silly?'

"You father for one…I don't know who else, but I'm sure I've accumulated a steady hit list."

"That's not true. You're nice."

"Thank you, Anya. You're nice too."

There was a passing of smiles and brief affection.

"But really, what do you think?"

"The weather is nice. It's been so hot back home…"

"What? Are you kidding? It's been so warm lately!"

"You would die if you came to New York right now."

"Don't tempt me. I just might, and when I die from getting too hot, it'll be your fault."

Alfred lived inside that venerated city, bringing excitement to Anya the moment his address touched to the placid skin upon her forearm. She looked at her flesh that day as one would admire a jewel earned by great woks and a wondrous heart. There was no knowledge regarding the state of his home, nor even if he lived inside his own space, but the moment awareness adhered to that beautiful truth, resolve to visit that sweet American entered the Russian girl's blood as potent opium, whether his inhabitance be inside a wondrous mansion or a dejected cardboard box with an address sloppily written upon its battered flank.

"I won't kill you, Anya. That would make me sad."

A moment of comfortable silence occurred in honeyed seconds.

"I really wish I could make you dinner…And I've wanted to show you my room for a long time now."

"It's alright. We don't have to be at your house to eat dinner together."

"Well, are you coming tonight?"

"Would you like me to?"

"You know I would. I hate it when you aren't there. Besides, I want to know all of your complaints so when I _do_ cook for you, I'll know what to prepare." Realization contaminated that pretty euphoria. "Oh no! I forgot that I owed you a cake! I would have made one but Papa just told me an hour ago that the meeting was here and not somewhere else! I'm sorry. But I've been so distracted lately it probably would have tasted awful anyway."

"Don't worry about it. I forgot that I even asked for one."

"Still, is there anything else I can do, since I can't make you a cake?"

"You could give me some sugar."

"You want sugar? Alfie, are you going to make your own cake?"

"No, no, no." A sweet press donated to Anya's cheek. "I mean you could give me a kiss."

"What kind of kiss? Because I've never kissed anyone on the mouth before, and that should be special; not just payment for a cake I forgot to bake."

"Then on the cheek. But can I have two?"

"Yes. You can have two." Gently, those elegant hands found places upon that adored American's neck, a tinge placed with great care upon his right apple and then the left.

And with such slow embraces, Alfred fully felt that fairy queen's affections for him, and all his thoughts regarding her, that heart usually kept in such powerful flutter and those playful lips desired hers inside a luscious embrace.

He did not require her to take those fiery palms from his susceptible and steaming flesh, that touch causing his blood to become hyper and his heart to combust of simple heat.

"May I have another?"

"One." And Anya surrendered those petals to the tip of the man's nose, causing a laugh and arms to conquer her.

"Thank you, Miss Braginski. You're so generous."

"You're welcome, you silly American. I had to give you some 'sugar', didn't I?"

And to that, the blond man did not compose reply, only held that gorgeous young woman inside a close proximity, either housing strong desire to give their love in blatant word and embellished abundance, but their lips remained shut as though a lock held either pair of those rusting metal gates. Because a Russian and an American were not meant to adore one another.

It had been that way far too long.

So many poured into the meeting hall that day, their thoughts filled with forbidden fruit and rotting promises composed in the shape of perfect phrases, so ready to be slashed and spilled. It was a difficult time for any attention, cores brimming with such weighty emotion and minds bleached white.


	38. Chapter 38

During that expansive meeting, Ivan had risen and descended into those lavish hallways without so much as a single thought and Anya could not locate him, no matter how much effort she poured from that determined blood. That great room so occupied with the faces of many had drained, and the girl did not know if she was intended to go home by means of her own tired feet or simply wait. Perhaps that man had gone into one of his offices to retrieve a document of shimmering importance but could not return in time to that affair of utter boredom.

So Anya spent her time waiting, and finally an hour expired beneath her exasperated shovel, souls dissipating as worn phantoms as smoke rising from incense sent to embers. Eventually, no one remained but that loyal guard standing outside, as he always was.

"Excuse me…Did you see my father walk past here?"

"Yes. I think so…He didn't come back in. Are you looking for him?"

That lovely child so embellished in her lost sleep gave affirmative movement.

"Ah. Well, he went off in that direction. I'm fairly he certain he went home."

"Alright. Thank you."

Crimson boots began to move inside that battered path leading to that sacred sanctuary kept so small and unfettered, the wearer harboring an acidic sort of anger as her mouth held a lip-stick stained cigarette. Anya was given both offense and confusion within the same instance, upset at that usually kind man for leaving her without explanation and concerned at what possibly could have tempted him to act with such rash manners.

Regardless, her tired sols beat on, lungs inhaling four of those sinful rolls before that unsuspecting victim arrived to that sunny home, expecting to find that guardian inside.

The door creaked from its frame and allowed dead atmosphere from its orifice, the air so quiet; one could hear a demon speak clearly. Anya set what few things she had upon the floor nearby that freshly closed porthole, a sudden and possessive panic donated for the sake of that shattered man.

"Papa? Are you here?"

"Yes, Anya." His voice had been raped of all its vigor and charm. "I'm in the kitchen."

"Are you alright? Why did you leave me at the meeting?" Anya walked deeper into that great rainforest of coarse vines and drowning tension to find Ivan right where he had ordained to be, but took surprise at his company.

"Katya?"

"Hello Anna."

"What is this?" Brows wilted as collapsing flowers. "Are you two together? Is that what you wanted to tell me?"

"No." That opposite pair of identical and azure glass could not meet its gaze with the fairy queen's image. "Anna, please sit down."

And the confused creature listened, taking a seat at that table.

"What's going on?"

"We have to tell you something."

There was a cruel silence, so overpopulated with loud hearts and souls falling into their sleepy graves.

"Uh…" Katya began. "Many years ago, your father and I fell in love with one another…"

Excess confusion gave wondrous accessory to thriving loss.

"I think we should just tell her."

"Anna…" Those brief seconds required years of each life beneath crushing inquiry. "…I'm your mother."

"W-what? You can't be my mother. She's long gone…Unless you two have been secretly married or-"

"Katya gave birth to you."

"What?"

The Russian girl's mind ceased its thoughts and even the simplest of notions came as incomprehensible jargon.

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you sooner. It was a hard situation. I was so poor, and I still am…If you would have stayed with me-"

"Stop! Stop; stop; stop. You're telling me that you're my mother and all this time you've been standing right in front of me? And you didn't say anything? _Not one thing?_ I've been wondering who you were for _years!_ And you stayed there, pretending I was never yours? Just who the hell are you?"

"Anna, this isn't all Katya's fault. It's mostly mine."

Sharp quiet.

"…I told her not to tell you. Actually, I told everyone not to tell you. It would have caused unnecessary pain. But I should have said something before now…For that, I'm sorry."

There were no statements willing to leave the safety of that pretty mouth so writhing in its loss and rage.

"I thought that if I allowed you to see your mother, you would be miserable…Katya would hardly be able to come here, and it would be worse to see her only every couple of years and want her everyday than to not be aware, and be happy with what you had.

"…But we couldn't keep you in the dark forever." Katya raised her shaking voice. "It was becoming unbearable, having to see you so often and not to say a word. There isn't a day that I don't think of you. And you've grown so beautiful." Expected emotion came, glowing rivers made against that absent mother's cheeks, so ripe in their distress. "I hope you'll forgive me. I'm sorry."

And Anya stood there, her stomach writhing, her arms aching, her feet ready to wear away, and her figure near to alleviating itself from the duties of a standing mannequin. That mind rushed with incoherent flow, as a menagerie set upon a race track, animals of different sizes and weights slamming into one another and causing terror when there truly need be none.

"…Do you have anything to say, Anna?"

There was insult taken at such a stupid interjection, only meant to impregnate the silence engulfing their souls. "What am I supposed to say?" Bitter glance captured either of them. "I would have liked to know. For so long, I thought my mother might have truly abandoned me, or was some kind of drug addict, or maybe had died. And I've been living my entire life thinking I was Russian. Now I'm half Ukrainian? What am I supposed to feel?" A moment expired for the sake of thought. "More than anything, I'm angry. Because I was deprived of something that I could have had…That everyone else had. That was _normal_. And I hated you, Katya. I assumed you didn't want me, or I wasn't worth your attention, or even your presence. But now you're here and I don't want you anymore."

Painful duration of surprise and utter heartbreak.

"I've lived my entire life without you. I've grown, I've cried, I've laughed, and you've seen none of it. For all I know, you're lying; trying to make a family of people you aren't even related to. You might as well be my _step_mother, because I've never met you before this year. And I hope you aren't going to start taking a part in my life. It's too damn late and I'd be happier if you left. Because this is _our_ home. Not yours."

Attention was shifted to the man who inhabited the next chair, his flesh bruised and bleeding before the daggers poured from her lips.

"And you; how could you? You didn't allow me a mother because you were afraid of _hurting me? _How do you think I feel right now? I'm hurt. I've been lied to my entire life and in a course of two minutes, I've gone from being certain of who I was to a half Ukrainian girl without a definite identity. For so long, I've been Russian and I was proud. But what now? You've taken my entire world and flipped it, and then you shook. I didn't even believe I had a mother. I still don't."

"Anna…"

"I'm going now. Because I can't stand to look at either of you, and if I stay, I'll likely scream." Those eyes so lost in their bitter static fell to feet clothed in worn socks. "I'll be back. I don't know when, but I've got nowhere else to go. Don't come looking for me."

And that promise was kept, the door opening and closing behind that girl who had disappeared so abruptly. One moment, she was sitting at the table, the next, a silhouette of her pretty form could be seen within the window, and presence disappeared as a wallet's innards inside a bar.

Katya and Ivan looked to one another, the woman's eyes bleeding their sorrow and the man's heart drenched in ache. They wondered if they had done the right thing.

That Russian man's arms wrapped around that Ukrainian woman he had caused that great mess with, admitting all her sobs while he tried with a sore throat to swallow his.


	39. Chapter 39

She went only because Alfred would be there, as she had asked him to be, but there was knowledge of future tears and wails muffled by a pair of elegant hands. Attempts would be made to murder those truthful droplets, but they would flood those eyes as water from a shattered damn, and as a drowning fool, she would escape.

Ivan would not be there; he was contained within his home, too fractured to rise and too stupid to know the time.

Now that wondrous secrets had been set from their cages, the man holding them so many years could finally allow his body rest, and he would not rise until that sleepless blood was recovered in whole.

And that girl still did not wish to be there, not with him.

Upon entering that lavish chamber, Anya did not land inside the table so embellished in faces she had seen so many times previously. Her feet brought her to the American's side, and she took a place amongst the ranks of his companions without raising her voice in permission. And because she had taken exactly what she wanted, all eyes shifted to those broken wings.

There was the Frenchman, the Englishman, and finely that friendly Canadian who she could not remember the title of.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle."

"Hello."

"What brings you to our table?"

"I'm tired of those stupid commies. They're boring. So I decided to sit with you…" That sadness leaked from her battered shell and reflected inside those aching jewels. "Are you going to make me leave, Arthur?"

"No. I don't care. I was just wondering why you were here. You're out of place, you know."

"Yes. I know."

"Hello, Anya."

"Hello." Goodness, what was his name?"

"Hello!" And that nymph was stolen into a quick embrace, a kiss located demurely upon her ear. "It's nice to have you here."

"Thank you."

As that set of pleasant companions ate, the lovely girl hardly allowed food past the barrier of her lips, her mouth remaining devoid of the happy noise filling all the others. Yet, those eyes regarded men laughing, and had she not contained such a heavy tumor inside her mind, she would have done the same; the anvil of truth had ground her into bitter dust and with bleeding hands, she tried to reassemble those fragments of delicate glass.

When the others drifted from their homes, she was left with her American, who held her inside loving arms and settled so near to her.

"What's wrong? You're never this upset…"

And with those words, fingers gave away their menial task and protected her churning lips, slow sobs muffled beneath those pretty blades.

"Come on…Let's go outside."

Quickly, they deployed, that American keeping loyal arm around dainty shoulders as feet moved in such fast time.

Flesh was contained inside cool night air, but their forms did not cease. Souls continued to drift further from that epicenter of formality, and the girl's cries grew in passion, pain infesting her chest and taking possession of her meager control.

Finally, they found their sanctuary against a lonesome bench caught within the kernel of privacy, and those deep welds began to heal. The distraught fairy queen was kept near to her darling, fingers sinking into that jacket as though she was dangled above a tragic cliff.

"Anya, what's wrong?" Those words came in Russian, causing that bothered creature to pull away and look into those glowing sapphires.

"What did you say?" A response in the same tongue.

"What's wrong?" Lips came to her soaking cheek, palm settling upon the frame of that recovering face and resting there long moments as eyes conversed.

"He told me my mother was Katya…" A thumb brushed away falling water. "Now I don't know how I should feel…" A violent swallow. "I was happy before. Because she was gone. But she's been here the entire time, standing just steps behind me." Petals contracted again and regained themselves. "I've been trying to swallow it all day, but I keep choking. It's like everything I've known has been tossed into my fire place, and all I could do was watch…" Emotion. "I'm not even Russian anymore…I'm so fucking dirty."

"I'm sorry…" Alfred held her at a sweet proximity. "But you'll always be who you are. Your parents don't define you and neither do your circumstances; only your actions. You're still you, Anna. You'll always be you. And it doesn't matter what comes after that." There was a temporary peace. "It hurts. It's supposed to. But you've only lost the lies you were told…You're _still_ Russian. You're _still _Anna Braginski. And we're _still_ friends. You're not dirty; you're beautiful. Please don't say that about yourself, because it's not true. You're bright and brilliant and everything you were before. But now you need time…" And certain adoration radiated from the American man so shamelessly. "Believe me, it's going to be alright, because all you can do now is accept it and live your life as the intelligent and lovely young woman you are."

Anya voided that throat so soaked in her upset, those windows still well drowning in the fluid emotion produced as a fruitful orchard of peaches caught in the midst of spring. Her dear companion was drawn in close to her as if she was attempting to weld lovely souls into one wondrous piece of fantastic art. "I love you…" Crystals drained, "I love you, Alfred."

"I love you too…" A press against that ruined and yet luminescent face. "You've been making me insane all these months." Another tinge of great relief, that oppression of love finally leaving with its admittance. "I'm sorry you're upset. But you're still beautiful, if it makes you feel any better."

Through that bleeding heart came happiness born of that momentous adoration. "You're beautiful too, Alfred."

"Thank you." A touch and hair tucked behind her blossoming ear.

And without hesitation, Anya took her darling's visage by that well formed frame and bonded their lips, immediate heat taking that misery and converting it to affection.

Anya would be upset later. She knew she would be, but for that moment, she had won that handsome man's mouth upon her own, and that mass of ebbing cancer born of her dear emotion had been expelled from her heart's golden chambers, horrid substance rushing away as a waterfall from a vase kept so miniscule.

Her core had been pulled from the dirt and placed amongst those shimmering bodies, where it had truly belonged, even though there was still some part of her aching of loss.

The two came apart and that elegant Russian hand befell the American's warmed visage, allotting a peck to the nose as if she felt the urge to grant far more than what was asked of her.

"How did you learn Russian so well?"

"I studied it. The same way you learned English."

"Why didn't you tell me? Were you afraid I would laugh at you?"

"No. I knew you wouldn't laugh at me. I thought you would make me speak it." A kiss upon her lovely brow. "But you always have to speak English and you were upset…"

"Thank you, Alfie. You're sweet."

"You're sweet too, Anya. I love you."

"I love you too." There was a solemn grin and another large portion of that great upset converted to stomach acid. "Will you walk me home? You don't have to come inside or talk to my father…Maybe just come back with me. Is that asking too much?"

"No. It's not." A delicate press. "I'll walk you home."

"Thank you."

Anya traveled home with her lover, their hands tied together as the finest of golden twine as words built in Russian fell from their mouths. Bliss and dejection lived beneath the same roof, yet there was something of gleaming contentment beneath that mountain of gunpowder and ash.

And the end came to the greatest and worst day of Anya's life.

Alfred was kissed goodbye and the recovering queen went into that other universe held beneath her father's mighty thumb.


	40. Chapter 40

Days after those truths and heartbreak and unfettered adoration, Anya sunk into certain numbness. Katya had descended those few steps before their quaint little home and her father did not throw those awkward words to her susceptible hands. His heart held a shell of guilt far too thick to shatter and in that impregnable dome; that small palace grew an air of suffocating quiet and the dead muse knew why.

Ivan did what he could for her, donning her healthy space when she so desired it, and showered her within a great phenomenon of silence, and did not raise his voice to those tears that seemed to come in such quick frequency, even though she tried with such undying vigor to hide them. And he allowed her all his usual love, because a promise hard as diamond had been birthed from that great crevice inside his chest, and he could not cease his affection for her. It would have been far easier to quit the flow of his very blood than to stop his blatant feeling for that dying creature, even when those aggressive red boots trampled upon his aching core.

He found her anger and her misery, each one of those noisome sentiments directed at his weakened throat. Because he had lied, because he had hidden so much of that sad history from her, because he had cracked her with such aggressive palms.

And that man could only pray that there was not contemptuous misgiving within that horrid writhing.

"Anya…" They sat at dinner one night; the girl having already finished her nourishment and stood to let Ivan to his own attention.

"What?"

"…Do you want to go to the movies with me?"

"No. I'm tired. And I'm going to lie down."

"Anna, please…"

"No."

"Do you hate me? Is that why you won't go?"

"I don't hate you…But I don't wish to spend time with you at the moment, father. You've thrown quite a bit at me, and I've only been able to think…You don't really want to go to the movies with me anyway. You just want to cheer me up."

"No, I do…" That blackened soul rose and took her plate gently from her hands, and set it within the sink, only to come back and claim the fingers he had just emptied. "I love you, Anna…"

That lovely girl did not have a single word to express. She only directed those void wells to seemingly broken feet.

"Do you want to do anything?"

"I want to lie down."

"Do you even love me anymore?"

"No. Not right now." Anya claimed her appendage. "I'm going."

And Ivan was left to stand there, his heart housing even more possessive fractures than before.

Yet, he was compelled not give up.

So that man with his fragile innards stayed up that night, and he made his daughter a cake, love entering that wondrous recipe just as easily as the flour and sugar, his passion taking home inside that sweet concoction and all his thoughts meant for such noble deeds.

Surprisingly enough, Ivan was a decent cook. He had made so many meals for that once adoring child, that most any combination could be accomplished beneath his capable fists.

And finally, long after his eyes were created to lid, he was allowed his robbed sleep, his kitchen well cleaned and that fresh chocolate cake kept with extreme care inside that comfortable refrigerator, as if that exalted pastry were to grow limbs and run into that foggy dawn, rendering efforts to dust and lost taste.

Yet that pearly barrier had the most lavish of charms, pictures drawn by that sweet gem herself lining its flesh as proud tattoos, and nothing could divert their wondrous protection.

Anya awoke to her father standing at her bedside, holding a rare plate occupied with that sickening confection and a glittering silver fork.

"…Why do you have cake?" Her voice was full of exhaustion and frank irritation.

"I made some for you." The sacrifice was placed at her desk, that lavish plate upon the surface. "Maybe we can go to the movies today, if you change your mind. Or we could take a walk…Whatever you'd like. I don't have to go into work today, so…It would be a good opportunity."

"I'll think about it."

A nod came in submissive compliance and that enraged sunflower was left to her own discretion. That rich mound of chocolate flesh was well temping, but it felt was though the enemy's poison sat shallowly inside the surface, and moment that infectious treat touched her very taste buds, her brain would be washed inside messages opposite to her own obdurate standards, and her defenseless wrists would be wrapped inside her father's victorious palm.

And her gaze could barely tolerate clashing with his image, writhing at the mere sight of that honeyed kindness and sugared glance, so full of his sympathetic hopes. It brought pain to her ever-screaming chest; her body stripped of all its clothes and gorgeous hues and left a blank canvas, ugly in its numerous scars. And the artist was meant to start another time, dejected at the annihilation of such a spectacular and rare work.

The man hoarding that colorful knife and white paint could only feel remorse.

And Anya drifted into that kitchen, Ivan sitting and thinking and working as he always had, and she placed that virgin fragment of candied love to the area it had been cut from, the man watching as his chest thrashed.

"It's unhealthy to have sweets in the morning. I'm not very hungry anyway. After I get dressed, I'm going for a walk. I might not be back for a long while." Anya's voice rang without pulse, and one might believe that her frame had been possessed by a wretched other, even though those orbs still held their sapphire allure.

"Where are you going?"

"To the movies."

"Can I come with you?"

"No."

"Anna…"

That girl murdered her father with those daggered eyes, that man suddenly turning from a stronger being to a love-sick fool. He bore witness to that mighty rage; those once bright windows came in such sunshine bathed in the storm clouds of bitter anger.

"Anya, please don't look at me that way. _I'm trying_. I know you're upset and you have every right to be, but please…I love you. You're my little girl, and I just want to be close to you."

But that pretty machine seemed to be unmoved. "I'm not little anymore, and I'm hardly a girl. If you love me so much, you shouldn't have lied so long. I know you think that it's not an issue, but you weren't just given a completely different identity. You weren't told that a large part of your very existence was just fabrication to prevent you from getting 'hurt'. You want me to feel better; you want me to be happy. I get it. But I'm not happy. And I'm not alright, and I have to fight back tears just thinking about all the normal birthdays I could have had, and all the motherly advice I've been denied."

And finally, as though the pair had left the eye of that destructive storm, true feeling broke across Anya's face as lighting strikes barren ground, leaving that beautiful muse so broken. Her lips quaked, her eyes filled, and her heart was dropped upon the floor for the world to observe.

"What am I supposed to say to Katya now? That I love her like I'm supposed to? That's it's so nice to have her when I've hardly known her for more than a miserable woman who asked too many questions? _That's it's nice to have a mother?_ There were times I thought she was dead! That I was born the child of an addict or an alcoholic, or a criminal! But to find out you saw her so frequently and I met her without even knowing-!"

The girl shook her head.

"Do you think I'm upset because I feel I should be? Well, I'm not. I'm angry and confused and-and fucked up, all because you didn't want me to be _hurt? Do you think this isn't hurt?_ I've been torn apart from the inside and you assume you can piece it all back together with some cake and a movie? Do you think I'm kidding? Did you think this would make me happy?"

Anya stopped her pointed rage and took a moment to allow breath into her lungs and water from those leaking gems.

"I don't want your cake or your day off. Because I still need to swallow the truths you've known the entire time. That you hid my own mother from me…and that I'm truly not who I thought I was." She wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry I'm not happy, but I won't pretend that everything is completely fine when we both know damn well it's not. I'm feeling so many emotions right now; I don't know what to think. But I've been a good daughter and I feel like I didn't deserve that. I listen to almost everything you say, and I trust you, only to find out that after so many years you had taken my own mother from me?"

"That's not what it was about!"

"I don't care what it was about! _I trusted you and you lied to me!_ That's it! I listened and you lied! You're overly protective of me and because of that you were dishonest, and that's why I'm leaving! That's the reason why I'm going to America! To get away from you! _I'm certain now!_ So thank you, father!"

More hard breaths and leaking eyes.

"Thank you for convincing me to leave. I won't be fooled. Not by the one man who is supposed to give me truth. Because this is far worse than missing someone. And I'm insulted that you thought I couldn't handle having a mother in my life…I'll be going now."

And that frozen nymph flew from her owner's palm.

Ivan had a thousand arguments he could have introduced, but not one held pertinence. It did not matter that he tended to her when she was sick. It did not matter that he had clothed and fed her. It did not matter that he had raised and loved her.

Because she was right.

He told her hideous mistruths, and that situation did not have to occur in such a deformed manner. So much had been stolen from her, and it was not important how much had been given.

Ivan had been a generous thief, but he was still a thief. Regardless of intention, a thief still took what was not his and caused pain.

And that man was drowning inside his guilt.

Ivan watched as his darling doll stepped from that heavy door, wishing to scream apologies and embrace her, but that would be even more severe than pouring acid upon an open wound. So he watched, choking upon those daggered words that had punctured him as truth.

Stoic tears formed and he did not erase them.


	41. Chapter 41

Ivan had left that day and Anya was set to her own eye. She sat upon those porch steps, smoking a cigarette, long and curling tresses wavering slightly within that soft gust that seemed to captivate her, kissing slightly to each frame of her body and donating each one of those weighty thoughts she was growing so accustomed to.

Her mind was submerged in a kind of pollution of great magnitude, a chemical spill that caused ache towards that man who seemed to try with such determination. Yet, the frozen child took a sort of twisted pleasure in knowing she had inflicted the same scars of broken family against his sad flesh, just as he had branded her. Her mouth had become a whip sharper than a fresh dagger and her eyes were as accurate arrows.

Ivan had not said good-bye to her when he left, but that broken soul did not care. It was exactly what she had been begging for, freedom inside that owned space, even though the landlord of that intangible field was beyond lonesome.

And in that solitude, a letter had been written to Alfred, but a reply had not flooded the girl's vision. He was frequently busy and one would need patience, but Anya was left without companion, not liking her peers well enough to give them invitation or weighty trouble.

So the shattered creature stayed home, smoking her cigarettes and choking on thought.

But Anya did not wish to suffocate any longer.

After finished three of those rolls, she rose and went inside, transferring to that bathroom and taking the reflection within that mirror realm. For some reason, there was compulsion to devour it, curiosity battering that twin surface for imperfection.

She could not stand that image projected before her, that mass of wondrous golden curls making her stomach writhe. Fingers drifted throughout those brilliant ringlets and tugged, scalp giving indignant screams of ugly protest.

It should be gone.

It was not hers.

Anya opened his father's drawer and found those scissors; the ones used when a trim was needed; when follicles grew too unruly. They were luminary, glittering as a star within a cloudless sky, so silver and chilled. The possessor felt as though she was not meant to touch them, even though Ivan had never said such actions were not allowed.

Fingers drifted over them, that reflective surface simple perfection. Small limbs slipped into those open slots and the owner's heart fluttered as a nervous humming bird, ready to fall of a broken wing.

Knives moved towards that ashen matter and claimed sections through that guillotine; there was hesitation, but those spears closed and that painless transaction was completed, lovely and desperate chains of precious gold falling helpless into the sink.

She had only taken away a fragment of those lower tresses…

But something about slicing away such a commodity of certain value gave Anya liberation. Perhaps because it was something controllable, malleable, when there was so much careful hands could not embrace.

The pair of executioners went higher upon that twisting rope and stole away the lives of innocent thread, leaving two small curls against the reckless queen's brightened cheek.

And there was the other side.

And the back.

And her new bangs.

And upon her neck.

And it was finished, the sink inhabited with lost and bleeding fragments.

Anya moved her eyes to those brilliant martyrs, numerals adopting them as a mother takes a child from the earth and weaving them into an expansive braid. Blades conquered those transmuted sections, those separated ribbons still so soft, even after their tragic deaths.

And ancient ribbon was torn from its home inside one of those hapless drawers and secured that prize at either end after it had been seared in half by the very same scissors that had committed such unforgivable sin.

Anya looked at herself, touching a curious hand to that smooth cheek and parting her ample lips, suddenly gone so stupid.

No longer was that nymph Anya, nor was she Anna. She was uncertain as to what identity she wore. Perhaps she was Anne, or Annie, or Antoinette.

But that girl inside that expansive mirror realm-she was new. And the soul who had tailored her did not know what words to offer, nor did she know how to place a title against a creature that appeared to possess such warm freedom.

This new form was Russian and Ukrainian. She was hardly a communist. She loved her American with a heart drowning in its unfettered adoration. She wished to live in New York; she had short hair. And she had not begged permission for it.

Digits brushed past the lengthily lashes her father's aggressive hand had thrust upon her face, her placid cheeks; that man had painted them for her, and her ashen strands, all kept in conformity with that missing personage.

Anya was gorgeous, but never before had she felt so hideous.

And so suddenly, that new soul's heart shattered into watery fragments contaminating those apples, that core coming to the tiles as a porcelain gem, shattering and leaving her innocent feet to exhibit their darkest scarlet. That wondrous lock of gold twisting around her hand, and her eyes closed in their acidic burn, pain possessing her as a hand overtaking a simple puppet.

Anya had killed herself.

After she had been so shattered and near to revolution, she died. And from those sad ashes sprang another, her hair short and that cavity within her chest well emptied.

It was not her first heartbreak. The lack of that exalted mother had left her bruised and unwell so many times over, as the moth that can only clash with the glittering bulb, and she had accepted that putrid truth, swallowing it as easy cyanide patient inside a deadly capsule. But each one of those collected fractures had finally burst as an explosion kept beneath the flaming sky, an atom bomb beginning inside those once healthy chambers and brining great destruction to everything those wiry veins touched in their delinquent grasps.

Especially the man who had allotted for that great wave of annihilation.

And the body who housed it was left a cleaned shell, screaming and recollecting her shattered glass with fingers coded in wounds.

She covered those sapphires, unable to devour their image with such moist sorrow flooding them. They were borrowed from that terrorist who had tricked her with such brutal skill, and in that fetid game, she had become the incarnation of all she could not bear to view.

Colorful nails tore those clasps from their pleasant little homes and send fabric expiring around her bruised ankles, tights ripping, a bra sent to an oblivion of deceased cotton, and her undergarments the only survivor in that magnanimous civil war.

Knees fell and a body coiled into itself, leaned upon those studded drawers, yet, she accepted them as thorns upon her scalp. They were embraced as sobs became bloodied howls, as though the creature had earned each of those daggered points.

That child no longer wished to be Anna Braginski. Satisfaction would take an honest rule at the letters of Bonnefeuille, or Kirkland, or Jones…But not Braginski. Not any longer. Her shattering basket had held all it could have, and yet, more of those diamond weights had been piled inside that festering crevice.

Finally, she had thrown those objects back, each colorful fragment soaking in the soreness of her muscles and the essence draining in lavished abundance from her lacerations.

When the girl rose, she threw those crimson boots into the trash. They were tattered and they were old. There was wonderment at the mere reasons for that oddly placed love. Perhaps they were the piece of her soul she had finally come to discard.

Truly, it didn't matter.

And she reverted back to her room.

Her father found her when he returned home, her form still nude, her braid a treasure inside her palm, and her hair surrounding her face in a shortened ideal.

His body hovered at that doorway, a heavy stone inside a paper carrier, a sigh evaporating from that mouth. Its life was not the byproduct of irritation, or of concern, nor pity. Ivan himself did not know the soil from which that strange plant had arisen.

"…You cut your hair." There was not a tendril of anger inside that silent voice.

"I know."

"…I saw your boots in the garbage."

"I don't want them anymore."

Silence, and the man approached, sitting with his dying muse upon her disheveled sheets and coding her inside a decadent embrace. A hand resided against her nude shoulder blade and another pressed those executed tresses behind a blushing ear.

"I'm sorry…" A hold grew tighter, as a loving boa constrictor. "I'm so sorry, Anna."

Ivan had found the evidence of his daughter's demise, written about the lost boots to the swollen eyes beneath her troubled brow. That heavy pain became his own, infecting his blood as a potent disease and squeezing emotion from his eyes as juice from an orange rough with pulp. Finally, the culprit had understood how hard that precious vase had fallen upon concrete, and his heart wept inside the dust of aftermath, ashes falling from the sky as freely as rain, and the earth fertilized in a tide of tragic crimson.

Anya moved her new gaze to her father's wetted eyes and those twisting lips, and knew that he did not mean to drop her from such a height. In his idiotic and paranoid way, the man believed he was acting a shield from that world so studded in barbed wire, and without intention, he had sent her into those aggressive fences with a blind fold and arms outstretched.

"I'm sorry. I love you. I love you, Anna…I'm so sorry…I should have told you sooner…I should have done so many things, and I'm sorry…I'm so, so sorry."

He had accidentally stepped upon her soul with clumsy feet and she had torn his core from a still beating chest and dismembered it completely.

"I love you."

He did, truly; he did.

"Please forgive me. I just want you back…you're all I have. You're so precious to me…" Finally, that wall so composed of steal and stone disintegrated.

"It's alright, Papa." Long fingers gently stole away those rare tears. "I love you too…And I'm sorry." The father was accepted by the daughter's lonely arms, and even with her tears exhausted, she found feeling for the man she had scarred. "I love you, you sucker."

Through his sorrow, he laughed.

"…Thank you for the cake. I had a bit today."

Anya was met with a mouth confused in the silence.

"…Will you go to the movies with me?"

Ivan took an expansive gulp. "It's late."

"Who cares? I want to go with you."

"Alright." He pulled away from her, taking the embers of dejection from his cheeks. "Get dressed and we'll go."

"Thank you."

"I love you, Anna."

"I love you too, Papa."

Anya was left to her own presence, and the magnitude of all consuming loneliness crushed her, even as it faded from view, having built upon the supportive back of that time so drenched in quiet. Clothing came to her naked form and color to that formerly shattered porcelain, a light inside the lantern gone misused so many nights.

The Princess found the King and their elbows intertwined, walking together within that sky so dappled with light, and they smiled, and they laughed, and they drifted in the presence of one another, having been separated for such bitter duration.

There were those scabs of emotional clutter, but either chest was pieced together as a great puzzle from all their broken fragments, and those lesions began to heal.


	42. Chapter 42

That locket of thin gold was sent to Alfred with a note attached, and soon after Anya was given her response. Although she thought it odd to send someone such a personal object, it was thought Alfred was meant to possess it, for whatever strange reason. So many times, he had captivated her with his words of beauty, most of them directed towards her once active ringlets.

Anya had also come to the conclusion that she was not the same girl she had once been. She was a new Anya, yet not the bland Anna, although she seemed to age with years in mere weeks.

There was freshness inside her, and those long and slender arms embraced it. Her body found more somber cottons, although a glow still surrounded her as it always had, and those lids were no longer powered in the rainbow's most obnoxious attributes. Grey now took hold of her frames with dark liner, and her lips were dyed a richer hue. Clam blush overtook her cheeks and Anya was still beautiful, if not more so than before.

And that queen that came so much closer to womanhood smoked; always outside and with tobacco containing her usual flavors.

So she sat upon her front steps, an unused pair of shoes upon her feet and a sweet roll between her pretty mounds with slow smoke drifting towards that vast sky.

"Anya…"

"Yes, papa?"

"You know you shouldn't smoke."

"Neither should you…"

Ivan joined her upon those concrete risers and removed his own cigarette, holding it before his daughter who produced that needed flame.

"I know…Thank you."

And they sat in comfortable silence a few moments, exhibiting that black incense.

"Anya, what are you thinking about?"

"Everything."

Yes, she had indeed accepted her truths and she swallowed each as one devours nourishment with foul taste, but just as that dutiful personage, she did not embrace those sentiments, still filled with a kind of gentle acid. There was still quite a bit of thought regarding them.

Anya felt as the drug addict who finally settled upon rehab, and despite her discomfort, she knew she was clean.

"…How are you feeling?"

"I don't know…" Ashes were flicked from that burning tip. "I feel sorry…but not for me."

"Then who do you feel sorry for, Miss Anya?"

"You…And Katya. It must have been painful. If I had a child…I don't know. I couldn't ever be separated from it. But it would be impossible to raise a baby alone…It reminds me that I was an accident. Because this whole situation is such a huge mess."

"Anna, don't blame yourself."

"Oh, I'm not blaming myself. It's completely your fault. But it's depressing to think I wasn't intentional."

"Gee, thanks."

There was a twisted grin against her lovely orifice.

"Well, no…You weren't intentional. But I still love you…You know I do. You're my favorite person, and I have to tell you, before you came along I was miserable. My house was quiet; I didn't have friends or a wife or really anyone. I did my job and I kept thinking about everything that had gone wrong…Why it had to be that way. But I was happy when I had you. You were so sweet…And actually glad to see me."

"Papa…"

"It was always nice when you smiled."

And Anya's face came to sympathy inside her pretty grin.

"I wouldn't even call you an accident. More like a surprise. But a good kind of surprise, like a visit from a friend you haven't seen in years or a late birthday gift in the mail." A pause. "You're very special to me."

"Thank you, Papa…You're special to me too. I'm sorry I was so angry. I didn't mean any of the cruel things I said. You're a good papa."

"Thank you." The girl was given a kiss and either party sent away their embers.

And they sat in happy quiet, mouths welling inside incomprehensible thought, both blissful and melancholy.

"I think I'm going inside now…" Ivan rose and extinguished his cigarette. "I have some papers I need to take care of."

"Do you want me to organize them?"

"Yes, eventually."

"Then I'll come inside too."

The pair retreated into their home, hearts filling with contentment for one another. The secrets that once filled either hearts as simple blood had dissipated, the man carrying only a few minor misconceptions while the girl held her largest fault beneath her skin.

But they did not seek such veins. Their home was surrounded in pleasant peace and there were no more painful quarrels left to devour their love for one another.


	43. Chapter 43

They had gone to New York.

And Anya had become a steaming fountain of bliss.

Her body could not handle being contained inside that meeting hall, where her wings were bound and her legs broken. There was temptation to run outside into those bustling streets and all those fantastic places.

Of course, Alfred had found his darling Russian and stole her into an embrace, a playful yell tearing from the fairy's mouth in both shock and radiating excitement.

"Hello, Anya!"

"Hello, Alfie!" She was set free only to wrap him inside long arms, kissing his lovely cheek. "It's so nice to see you again."

"It's nice to see you too…I got your braid. I'm a little sad that you chopped off all your hair, but you're still cute."

"Thank you. Do you really like it?"

"You always look nice."

A smile and a touch to the American's lips. "You're sweet." Another. "Will you show me around?"

"Of course, if your father lets me…How has everything been anyway?"

"It's gotten a lot better. I feel…Different. I think that's why I cut my hair. I've changed, but I'm still me…Does that make sense?"

"Yes, it does."

"Well, good. I'm too tired to speak any better." A tinge of that honeyed affection. "I love you."

"I love you too, Anya." Alfred kissed his doll in return. "I had an idea."

"What was your idea?"

"I thought that maybe your could stay an extra week. I'll take care of everything, a hotel room your plane ticket; anything you need. And since you're not going to school or anything, I figured it would be a good time."

"I really like that idea. But do you think my father is going to let me stay here alone?"

"You won't be alone. I'll make sure you're alright."

"No, Alfie. That's even worse." Those luscious mounds pulled at their edges and pursed in the center. "You know…"

"I know Vanya doesn't like me. But…I figured I would use some of my persistent charm. Besides, I'm just going to borrow you for a week. That doesn't seem like enough time to actually get you into any trouble, does it?"

"Well…No."

"Don't worry. We'll work something out."

"Alright, but don't call him Vanya…He'll just tear your arms off and stuff them in your mouth so you can't talk anymore."

"Will you sew them back on?"

"Of course! But I might need extra time…"

"Then it looks like you'll stay no matter what happens."

Anya laughed. "I suppose so."

"Good." A peck. "I'll ask him at dinner tonight."

"Alright…Thank you, Alfred. I'm sorry I didn't get to make you a cake or show you my house."

"Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal."

"Thank you."

"Well…You did send me your braid."

"Was that weird? I thought you should have it." Those porcelain cheeks took on a coat of scarlet.

"Maybe a little bit. But I'm a weird guy, so I didn't really mind. Your hair is lovely anyway."

"…You're cute." Anya was unsure of what to say.

"Thank you." Alfred offered a smile. "You're cute too."

"Thank you." The lovely girl glanced into those opposing mirrors painted in such outstanding blue. "Do you want to sit down somewhere?"

"Sure."

And they located shelter for their active conversation, that home in the center of bustling people and all their mirroring words. Fingers intertwined as golden ribbon and smiles came to an agreement, bliss born of simple presence.

"Alfred, do you think people will like me?"

"I don't know Anya…Do you want to be liked?"

"Of course I do."

"Then they will. You're a sweet girl."

"I know. I'm just so nervous now that I'm here. I almost feel like I've forgotten to speak English and everyone is going to look at me strangely the moment I begin to talk. But I'm nice. At least, I think I am."

"_You are nice._ Don't worry. You English is a lot better than you think it is. And Americans see foreigners all day long, especially here. People might look at you strangely if you start speaking Russian to their faces, but I doubt you're going to do that."

"No. I don't think so…"

"Good…" A thought came in simple epiphany. "Well. People might look at you."

"_Why?_" Immediate panic.

"Because you're so pretty." A kiss donated to that cheek filling in such blossom. "Silly girl."

"Don't do that! I thought for a moment you meant an _actual_ reason."

"That is an actual reason."

"Alfie, _you're silly_."

"So. That doesn't cancel out your silliness, silly."

"Alfred, come on!"

"Alfrrrred! _Come on!_" The American imitated her, those lips pursed into repressed joy.

"_What was that? _I don't sound that bad!"

"Vhat vas sat? I don't sound _sat_ bad!"

"You better stop that! I'm going to sit somewhere else."

"You betterrrr stop sat! I'm going to sit somevherrrre else!"

"That's it." Anya spoke in Russian, brows well damaged and body rising. "Don't bother with asking my father anything. I'm not staying. Not with you, anyway."

"Wait! I was kidding!" Alfred got up and stood behind her, voice mirroring hers in that familiar tongue. "Please come back…I'll miss you. I'll cry!"

"_You're not going to cry._ You're just going to imitate me."

"I won't. I didn't think it would bother you that much…Please come back."

"_I didn't go anywhere._"

"The come closer. I'm just annoying you out of admiration; I promise. You can make fun of me."

"I don't want to make fun of you. I want you to stop mocking me."

"I won't."

"Fine."

And they sat amongst each other.

"You're such a dork, Alfred."

"I know."

They had converted those friendly syllables to English.

"Dork."

"I know."

"Dork."

"Thank you, Anya."

"_Dork._"

"That's exactly how I feel about that too! That's so interesting!" Alfred touched her innocent hand. "You have to tell me your other opinions!"

"…Dork."

"_You're so smart!_"

And finally, there was a laugh, the container of such bliss trying with great determination to transfer such mirth to another unfortunate soul. "Damn it, Alfred. Stop making me feel better. I'm supposed to be angry with you."

"Oh. Sorry. Here; I'll be angry too." And the American man stood so still adjacent to her, mouth shaped into a bitter frown far too accentuated, and his brows having the weight of faux anger thrown upon them, golden lines sinking upon those sapphire frames and that visage taking the crimson colors of rage, creating a humming noise beneath that great stress. He looked as though he was ready to pop.

The Russian girl, helpless in her love and amusement, had to curl her lips. "Stop that…You look like you're trying to poop."

"_Oh!_ So _that's_ why I always poop when I'm angry! Thank you, Anya. You learn something new every day, don't you?"

And her entire face found refuge inside her palms. "That's disgusting! Now every time we have an argument I'm going to imagine you trying to-" A shout to those soft pads. "Don't say those kinds of things!"

"Hey! Do you want to hear something really disgusting?"

"_No!_"

"Alright, well imagine your father and he just came back from the gym. His chest hair is all matted down with sweat-"

"_Shut up!_"

"And he's wearing really skimpy exercise shorts that are stuck to his legs-"

"_Shut up!_" She covered her ears with the appendages she was only moments ago laughing into, Alfred taking the wrist of the one nearest to his cruel each and pulling it from her ear.

"And then he takes them off because they're _so_ sticky, and he's wearing a bright red-"

"Stop! Stop! Stop! You win! You win; just shut up!"

Alfred held his joy like a trophy. "Did I just ruin your relationship?"

"Yes…"

"Well, I'm sorry." A kiss. "Do you still love me?"

"No, Alfred. I don't love you anymore."

"Oh come on. You _love_ me." He embraced her.

"No, I really don't. Stop touching me."

"Anya…" He rested his head against her helpless shoulder and whispered in all his darling stupidity, "Anya…"

"_What?_"

"I love you."

"Stop touching me."

"I love you."

"Stop it."

"No really; I do."

"Stop."

"Anya…"

"No. I'm serious."

"Then why are you smiling?"

"I'm not smiling."

"Yes you are."

"I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Let go of me."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"_Yes._"

"_No…_" He held his poor doll closely, her personal space nothing but a dream nights from her, that body constrained with strong and affectionate arms. "Do you want to know why?"

"No."

"You do."

A sigh.

Alfred came at an even more uncomfortable proximity, lips touching to her poor and infuriated ear, an obnoxious whisper infecting her lobe."It's because I love you."

"Stop! Alfred you're making me unhappy!"

"I'll stop when you return my love."

"I don't want to!"

"_Why?_"

"_Because you're so damn annoying!_"

"I want to hear it."

That helpless girl whined and squirmed inside that firm grasp.

"Say it."

"No!"

"Say it."

"_No!_"

"_Say it._"

"Fine! I love you!"

"I'm not convinced."

"_I love you!_"

"Now you're just angry. Do it again."

There was not reply.

"Anya, I can't hear you."

Silence.

"Anya…" A kiss. "Anya…" Another embrace of those infectious lips. "_Anya…_"

Finally, the requested girl donated her attention, lathered inside her growing misanthropy, and had her mouth come into contact with the one that annoyed her with such vigor, flesh touching softly a few seconds.

"…I love you."

"I love you too."

"If you loved me you would let me go."

"Alright."

And the captured fairy in all her dimmed light was set free.

"Thank you."

"Of course." A press. "You're really cute when you're angry."

"Alfred. I'm going to get you back. Somehow…I'll do it."

"Sure you will."

"No. I'm going to."

"I believe it."

"No you don't."

A short hug was distributed and another kindly tinge of the American's affection.

"I love you, Anya. I'm sorry."

"It's alright; I suppose…I love you too."

"Thank you."

Despite the annoyance held inside her as stained water inside a clear container, that poor girl truly did hold such honeyed emotion for her darling Alfred, and she arrived to that horrid meeting with her heart inside a steady fluster at either playful irritation and churning emotion.

There was a definite desire to stay in America that unnecessary week, yet that confined bird would likely be locked inside her father's bitter cage, those bars composed of barbed wire and that constitution censored by fabric.

But Anya would hope.

She always did.

A spot was taken, the owner keeping quiet and convulsing lips.


	44. Chapter 44

Anya and Ivan went to dinner that night, the girl quaking inside her knowledge of what was to come, that fated conversation of words.

However, despite that fairy's utter excitement, notice was given to the things gone altered.

Katya was not present, but her figure was not expected inside that great hall of idiotic wax sculptures. Her heart had contained ugly welds for years, and finally, all those little cracks caused that fragile porcelain to shatter, pieces far too small to be constructed into its original format again.

Perhaps it was better that way. Anya had a legion of phrase sitting against her tongue and the moments those warriors would be sent to their peaceful battle, emotion would overtake her face no matter how she swallowed those inevitable chokes. Cruel words had been dissolved inside forgiveness and acceptance, because nothing could be altered. But there was still so much to be expelled for that mother, not only simple statements but questions alike. And had Katya arrived, Anya would have allowed them from their chains and crystalline diamonds would inhabit those flushed cheeks.

For a moment, that Ukrainian woman's company was truly desired. Because within that vast body of confusion there were words of apology, for the bitter truths that pretty girl had ejected as acid.

Because she did not know Katya, and by her own principles, hatred was not allowed birth for a stranger. Harboring such daggered feeling for a situation and personage left unfamiliar was nothing but hypocritical, especially against that sunflower's shoulders.

But Katya had not come, and Anya could only accept what she had taken and what she gave.

And she sat down, the entire table seeming to know what had occurred, as if they had stood inside that very home as Anya was injected with that infectious information, as though they had witnessed her tears, as though they had judged when she tore away all those battered cottons and tore those golden tresses from her scalp. As though they had recorded that forgiveness directed only to her father; she was something to be observed.

Finally, she could see their true hues bleeding from them as a fresh portrait within the rain, each brilliant ray exposed as veils ripped away and mists had faded from their positions.

"Hello, Anna."

"Hello, everyone."

Despite that new vision, things progressed as they always had, awkward and dismembered syllables bent in the air of faux enjoyment, the ugly joy birthed in the essence of a growing lie, and all of those smiles welded so perfectly of gleaming plastic.

Then it was time to mingle.

And the American came.

The pair of Russians had gathered into the middle of that expansive floor, and Alfred so easily came into their conversation, the larger man's brows dropping a steady moment at the mere witness of those genuine lips and characteristic spectacles.

"…_What?_"

"Hello, Ivan." Those words came inside the other's language, the accent surrounding them thin as a lone sheet of tissue paper.

"Oh. You can speak Russian now? Who told you to say that to me? _My daughter?_"

"No sir. I learned it myself."

"_Sir?_ Now I know you want something. So what is it?" Ivan smiled, the usual grin he held when tolerating that eccentric blond man. "Money? Weapons? My sanity? Well…You already have that."

"None of those things. I'd like to borrow Anna."

"My Anna? No. No, no, no. I knew you were crazy, but now you might want some mental help."

"Listen, I know it sounds crazy, but since she plans to live her at some point, it might be good for her to stay. Not for a month or anything. Just a week. I'd be willing to pay for her hotel room, a ticket back; anything she might need."

"Papa, it would be really nice…"

And for a moment, calculation could be heard around that man's cranium, as a machine working far too quickly.

Guilt still found refuge inside Ivan's soul for that weighty truth. It had crushed Anya's beautiful heart into mangled fragments, despite that slow healing that had occurred. And he could see such bright and wondrous hope within those shimmering windows, as though her entire existence slept upon his wide shoulders.

But…It was _Alfred._

"Is she going to be safe?"

"Of course. I'll be sure that she doesn't get into any trouble."

"You, huh?" The man glanced to his sugared doll, drinking those eyes as biased water and then moving gaze to the American, who held those comical lips.

"I know you don't like me, Ivan. But at least you know me. And I won't let Anna get hurt."

There were another few painful ticks bound in silence.

Anya had been a good girl. Perfect grades were brought to the man's steps, her ears had taken all his information and for the most part, did a superb job of following those close facts, and hardly had offenses been committed beneath her lovely fingers.

Anya had earned trust.

And she was a well behaved youth…

"Alright. But you _better_ be sure you take good care of her. If she returns with so much as a scratch on her lovely face, I will not think _twice_ about dismembering you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I do."

"Good…And before I fully agree to anything, I'd like to speak with you along a moment."

"Of course."

Anya was given a kiss as a prize sitting against a high shelf and either man drifted from her.

A secluded corner was found and the two stuffed themselves inside it, eyes holding intense conversation for long and crushing seconds before a voice rose above that silent clamor and drifting gunpowder. Tension filled the air densely as fluid inhabits a vase.

"You're not to lay a finger on her. I trust my daughter, but not you; not completely. You can watch over her. I'll even let you be her friend, but that doesn't mean you can do whatever you like because I'm not standing close behind her. Anna's beautiful. You know she is, and she is not yours."

"I know."

"And you know I'll kill you if…"

"I know."

"…Alright."

"Alright."

They returned, expressions clean of their previous conversation.

"Miss Anya, Alfred is going to take care of you. I trust you'll be a good girl and you won't do anything too out of the ordinary."

"Of course not!" The fairy's heart fluttered in all its excitement, figure willing to burst from all its loud bliss. "Thank you, Papa! I'm so excited!" Anya embraced the man who gave her such difficult permission. "Thank you."

"It's no trouble, sweetheart."

And the girl turned to her American, an embrace kept within her gaze. "Thank you…"

"Of course."

That happy child went back with her father that night, flesh radiating of her amorous joy and the very air around her aflame with illumination. Within that great city so soaked in light, she shined the brightest, eyes drawn to her as months coming to that classical flame, wings taking her glow upon them and writhing into ash.

Anna Braginski was unable to feel that horrible depression that so engulfed her nearly days before, and never had her wings brought her so near to those dappled stars.

Finally, the ability of flight was taken.

"Thank you, Papa."

"You're welcome, Anya. Promise me you'll be safe."

"I will."

The continued on, the girl euphoric while the man shuffled inside his deep concern.

What exactly had he agreed to?


	45. Chapter 45

The Russian man went home when he was scheduled to, leaving his darling daughter to her city and the mercy of that American.

Finally, Anya had felt as though she had expelled all of that horrid noise from her ears, no more taxing reminders of, "Oh, and don't go out at night," or, "Don't forget to brush your teeth every day," and, "Make sure not to do anything foolish and don't leave your hotel room too often."

Of course, Ivan had seen the chamber in which the girl would take her temporary inhabitance; he was assured there was indeed an available ticket for his doll's safe return numerous times, and he was offered every fiber of the American's promise that Anya would not be subjected to any form of jeopardy, no matter how mild.

Yet, Ivan worried. He worried during the flight back and he worried as he sat inside his home, thoughts whirling around his skull as an enraged typhoon, threatening to tear away his very constitution and leave him a broken skeleton with an American daughter. They held their cruel mallets, and they whispered to him the most fowl of words, each of those horrid activities that sweet nymph _could_ be doing.

But he reminded himself that she was a good girl, and likely did not even know how to get into trouble, at least not the unfettered brand of stupidity that resulted in lost children and dying parents.

And there were no plans of ruining lives or endangerment of mentality; Anya wished to go sightseeing and chat with Alfred, and truly, that was all. There were no idea of dirtied night clubs and convincing her elder companion to but her alcohol or any of the foolish things the youth was notorious for.

She simply readied herself within that hotel room, preparing for that love of hers to visit as he said he would, before allowing her there for her first night in solitude.

Blush lightened her cheeks, shadow welling against her eyes and the hue of sweet wine inhabited her plump lips. There was a great desire to appear lovely to the one who had granted her such a steady debt.

And so quickly, the knock came.

"Just a minute!"

Anya's determined feet came to that porthole and her freshly painted nails carefully pulled the door from its embrace with that heavy frame, revealing the blond man wearing that typical and bent smile.

The girl threw herself into an embrace and nearly dragged his poor and unsuspecting form inside, layering forced kisses to his unready mouth and that defenseless nose.

"It's nice to see you too."

Laughter from happy blossoms and an even more affectionate embrace, soft words coded in honey drifting with such ease within the blond man's ear.

"It's so nice to see you. I can't tell you how happy I am right now." A sugared touch of those petals. "Thank you."

"It's no problem, Anya. I wanted you to see this city anyway." He donated a press in return. "You're so pretty."

"Thank you, Alfie. You're pretty too; you know, in your Alfred way." The most brilliant of genuine grins were lathered against those mounds and another one of those wondrous tinges were expelled in excess to the wearer's flesh, taking a fragment of that generous heart with that tragic fade.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"I was going to show you my house, if you'd like. We can do whatever you want."

"Well…I can't really do anything." Anya released her prisoner, who did not mind playing as that joyous hostage.

"Why not?"

"I don't have much money…"

"Well, don't worry about that. I'll get you whatever you like."

"No. you can't…You're already doing so much for me. I owe you everything I have."

"Anya, I want you to have fun. What's the point of staying _anywhere_ if you can't even enjoy it? Besides, I had plans, since I'm essentially your tour guide."

"What did you have planned?"

"I was hoping we could go to the movies and get something to eat afterwards."

"That sounds great…" Another kiss. "Can I make dinner instead? I'm a good cook."

"_No_; you can't make dinner. You're my guest. Besides, I have to introduce you to American food. You're going to love it, I promise."

"_You promise?_ Well…"

"_Yes?_"

"Alfie, I feel guilty…"

"Why? I'm the one who suggested you stay. You didn't ask."

"I know. But I'm still taking and I want to give."

"How about you make dinner tomorrow? You'll still make dinner and I'll still have my plans. Hell, Anya. You can even make lunch if you'd like to."

"Breakfast?"

"Breakfast too."

"Alright. But you let me know when you're tired of taking care of me. Because I want to take care of you too." Anya pinched her American's vulnerable cheek and flashed her brightest grin. "Let me get my purse and then you can take me away from here."

"Thank you, Darling."

"Darling?" Anya moved away in strides and claimed her bag from its sleep against that freshly made bed. "I like that." And with limbs gushing inside their anticipation, she returned.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes. I am."

"Good." Another addition to that great family of blatant affection, and the pair tied their hands together, woven so warmly as a gorgeous tapestry of the most handsome of thread, and their sols moved from the Russian girl's temporary home.

It was not a long drive over, however, hearts pounded inside their cages and the wheels revolved far slower than it would appear. Anya was not nervous, but excited, having wanted to see that wondrous and near mythical place for so long. Would it be dirty or clean; big or small? And would Alfred mind allowing that curious pixie to explore each of those crevices and chambers?

Of course, such foolish inquiries would not fall from that childish tongue, but the holder of all that acidic curiosity was indeed hopeful. Anya was simply a girl with wonderment constantly strewn about her mind.

When the city began to end and the neighborhood began, there was immediate shock. Monstrous homes and emerald green lawns occupied streets as a fantastic crowd dressed in its finest attire; some of those gorgeous attendants holding dogs and children and sprinklers for all parties to partake in. They would have all easily been construed of marble.

Anya did not realize her expression until the American man laughed at her, bliss filling her ears as something strange and nearly foreign. That great surprise had been temporarily shattered and she was left with wide eyes composed of jewels staring at her blond king, suddenly gone from the most normal of men to the ruler of a healthy empire.

"Is your house in all this mess?"

"Yes indeed."

"But they're so..._big._ How much money do you even make?"

"That's none of your business, sweetheart." Alfred leaned over and kissed that young woman's cheek, causing their vehicle to serve somewhat. "Even if it was, it's not important."

"But…"

"What is it? Do you think it's wrong? I've earned my house, Anna."

"It's not about that! I was just expecting you to live somewhere smaller…You've seen my house, Alfred. It's hardly half the size as one of these."

The American man took several moments in the essence of computation. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course…"

"How do you feel about communism?"

"I think it's fair, but I'm not all too serious about it…I'm willing to see other systems too."

"But how is it fair?"

"Everyone gets the same things and opportunities. It seems pretty fair to me."

"Alright. Now how do you feel about capitalism?"

"Alfred, come on. I don't want to answer such serious questions."

"Well…Just tell me."

There was a moment before her answer."…I think it causes greed and vanity. It can turn good hard working people into greedy pigs, even when they don't want to be. I mean-" Blond brows wilted as sad flowers and the girl sighed. "There are good points in either system. I'm not saying that all capitalists end up greedy horrible people, but they can be. Sometimes. Sometimes they get too much money for their own good and simply keep it all for themselves while so many others suffer. I don't mean the homeless drug addicts or anything. They didn't have to be that way. I mean the people who work incredibly hard and do a good job but come home to a shabby apartment full of three crying children and a hungry wife. Maybe they don't work as hard as the rich man, but they still go hungry and they still suffer. That doesn't seem right when the owner of the company has more money than he can count. He probably had to hire someone to count it for him…" She seemed to calm. "But I don't want to fight."

"Alright. That's a valid point, but there's always another side…Wouldn't it upset you to make the same amount of money as the man who works in a factory, who didn't work hard enough in school and didn't pay attention to his future? He could work in a factory or a restaurant while you work as a brain surgeon, which I'm willing to bet is a lot harder, but you would both get the same thing. Keep in mind, you worked hard to get to college, and worked hard in college and graduated only to find that you could have dropped out when you were fifteen and likely have the same life you did after painful years of mental sweat. That seems a lot more unfair than someone succeeding and making what he should while someone has to work for him…"

And Anya though a moment, welling in her arguments and not willing to launch a single one. There was not a desire to fight, and some part of that American's rebuttal had been correct.

Alfred continued. "You would have the opportunity to have a better life. Maybe you don't need to make millions every year, but you could have a nice home and you wouldn't have to go hungry…Have you been working hard, Anna?"

"Yes. I've been working hard."

"Don't you think that you deserve something better than a tiny house and meager supplies? Especially when you do work so hard. It doesn't necessarily matter how hard you work. It's your skill level. I'm certain that the working class does work harder than the people who run companies, even though either position is difficult, but if everyone gets an education and continues moving forward, they end up far more successful than the kid who sits in class and sleeps while getting the worst scores possible. Anyone can do it. We can all make a lot of money, but people drop out and they fail, so why does that entitle them to anything while you're working twice or maybe three times as hard? You're not greedy because you're successful, although some people become that way. You don't need to live in a huge house or drive a nice car or do any of those things. If you're happy living in a smaller house, that's absolutely fine. But you _can_ live in a big house; you can do whatever you like! Because you did work hard and you didn't so horrible things to yourself and your future…Doesn't that seem a little fairer than working and truly getting nowhere?"

"I told you I didn't want to argue about it."

"That's not an answer, Darling."

"Yes. I suppose it does, but I'm not sure about any one form of government. They both have good things and bad things about them…" Anya glanced back into that moving scene of abundance and joyous children. "Now I'm angry with you."

"I know." Another touch and yet another swerve.

Finally, they pulled into that shimmering driveway adjacent to that bright and healthy lawn, the contrast between city and wealthy suburb causing the girl to feel as though she had walked into a completely different realm. Curious feet came from their warmed shells and the owner's hands adopted that lost flesh, wondering if that great and lavish image before her was indeed true. The sky held a hue more azure than her very eyes, and the clouds gleamed as rich diamonds above those blessed homes. Could one pay for their atmosphere as well?

Anya placed her toes within that small field of undying emerald and kept looking towards that vast and embellished sky, treating that image as though it was a gorgeous painting set before her gentle eyes, emerging from the wondrous graces of a master artist, as though it was put into creation for her sight, and her sight alone.

The door clicked open and those wells so inhabited by the sun's beautiful work came to the man who owned that portal and the entire universe it allotted entrance to.

"Would you like to come in, Anya?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." That stunned creature came closer to that enormous house, attention sent to a new portrait, each item inside it gorgeous and protected in the loving arms of perfection.

"Oh my god…" Amazement transferred to Russian, a bottom lip seeming to lose its consciousness a moment. "Will I be lost if I try to use the bathroom?"

"I hope not."

Her breath was suddenly taken within all those happy possessions, those fantastic tapestries, those porcelain vases tattooed with such wondrous images, those sunny walls and those windows soaked in immaculate shine…

"Alfred, how do you keep this whole place clean?"

"I clean up after myself…You know."

"But doesn't it get lonely or anything?"

"Of course it does. But I would be lonely inside a big house or a little house."

"Oh, Alfie…"

"But now you're here. So I'm not lonely anymore."

"Thank you…"

And the Russian girl, uncomfortable in her near poverty went back to all those fantastic views; her sols had graced a golden dream, so much embellished and shone around her, those brilliant rays radiating from luminescent surfaces even seemed to dull against all the golden weight stacked against it.

"Would you like to see the kitchen?"

"Oh…Of course. Show me everything."

Her father would have been disgusted with such a magnificent abundance, likely believing that such a wondrous institution so layered in its wealth was truly a cold and empty shell just as the man who so possessed it. But Anya could only see its beauty and its glisten, knowing so well within her heart grown compassionate that Alfred was a kind and loyal man.

Of course, he had his mistakes and he had his persistence, but everything is meant to house minor flaws.

And to Anya, he was a diamond with few imperfections.

They reached the kitchen and that amazed girl took her due surprise at that unending nourishment and how diverse those flavors were; they reached the bathroom and due surprise was taken at the sheer quality of toilet paper and the very existence of sweetened hand towels; they reached the library and Anya wallowed inside her due surprise for that legion of innumerable books, the old literature, the magazines, the encyclopedias, the scientific knowledge stacked about the shelves, the comic books kept upon their own dominant space, the books in all those diverse tongues, in Chinese, in Japanese, in French, in German, in Spanish, and in Russian, sitting so daintily within their joyous places and keeping those creases within their arthritic spines as mighty battle wounds from the wars and abuse they spoke of, those pages bent and their innards ancient and read.

The only time she did not take her typical shock was when that personal chamber met her senses, sheets unmade and a decrepit sort of guitar sitting haplessly upon the wall. Even more comic books were strewn about the floor, yet kept in a sort of plastic cover, taking their place amongst the discarded T-shirts and blue jeans…It was all T-shirts and blue jeans.

But there was something within that great explosion of boyish charm that did bring her that expected element; she was anticipating pricey articles and walls dressed in lavish gems of paint, so willing to speak of their creamy nature and compliment the furniture adorning the corners and each cardinal place.

"I thought you said you picked up after yourself."

"I do…Just not my room. It's my home inside my home, essentially."

"If you knew it was messy why did you show it to me?"

"Because I love you, and I know you'll still love me even if my room is a wreck."

"I see." Anya moved inside that strange forest of mirrored fantasy and sat upon that bed, soon joined by the overlord of that puzzled kingdom.

"You still love me, don't you?"

"Yes. I love you very much. I just want to clean your room."

"Well, don't worry about it…Do you want to go to the movies yet?"

"Sure. Whatever you like."

"But I'm asking you."

"Then I want to go to the movies."

"Then we should go to the movies."

And they left that home, hands intertwined and stomachs full of numerous inexplicable emotions. Anya had uncovered a complete other side to that man she had known so very well, and there was a sickness towards that personage that captivated her, the girl knowing she should have felt an anger towards that enormous wonderland. Where one lied, another two could have been built.

But Alfred has earned it, just as Anya had been kind enough to share that sweet brilliance with her American, and had been allowed to touch her eyes to that fantastic gem.

She knew that not many had seen that lavish haven; that such a privilege was reserved for the gifted. Not everyone's tattered fingers could touch to such a cleaned plat of pearly fabric.

Yet, there was still guilt, because her father would have been beyond appalled, as any good communist would, but her world seemed to run backwards, where Americans spoke perfect Russians and the Russians spoke in mangled English. When Capitalism seemed far fairer than the system she had been so adjusted to, trying to protect its loyal people but only bruised then and left them to the battered shells of themselves.

But that confused queen cleared her mind within that shifting painting and that Alfred's honeyed smile, blissful to be where she had wanted to go for such a long duration.


	46. Chapter 46

A knock came to that hotel room door and Anya attended to it as a mother to a crying child, accepting the man who stood behind that porthole into a handsome embrace.

"Hello, Alfie."

"Hello, Anya."

"It's nice to see you again. What would you like to do today?" Those cerulean gems were so full of light.

"Well. I only have one thing planned, but it's very important."

"What is it?"

"I need to get you a pair of jeans."

For a moment, that girl's heart seemed to ache, knowing her father would become beyond upset at the mere sight of denim lining her once innocent and Russian legs. Those pants, the symbol of all evil in their indigo shine, would likely never be worth their cost; Anya knew Ivan would not approve of such a naïve action.

So, despite the fact that the sweet fairy queen did indeed desire a pair of jeans, words were shaped into lies and bitter disappointment was swallowed as ugly medicine.

"That doesn't sound very important. Besides, you've spent enough money on me, haven't you?" Brows withered and the subject was pushed onto another topic. "Which brings me to an idea I had last night when I was sitting alone and watching television."

"What was your idea?"

"Maybe I could check out of this hotel and stay with you. You wouldn't have to pay anymore, you could save on gas money because you wouldn't have to travel back and forth to get me, and neither of us would have to be lonely. We could watch television together. What do you think?"

"Normally, I would agree with you, but since your father would skin me alive, and it is somewhat inappropriate, you're stuck here Anya."

"_Inappropriate?_ It's not inappropriate. What's so inappropriate about staying at your friend's house? We wouldn't be sleeping in the same bed, and I'm not going to run around naked the entire time. Besides, your home is huge. You could put me far away so it would be like I wasn't even there. And I could make you breakfast."

"So you're not going to run around naked?"

"Does that disappoint you, Alfie?"

The American answered with a kiss.

"How about it? I'll even let you buy jeans for me."

"You would do that anyway."

"No, I wouldn't." A kiss in return and a tongue lost in its missing truths. "Because you're too damn sweet to me. I feel like I'm taking too much out of your pocket."

"Well…"

Those fingers nearly shivered within their anticipation, and the girl possessing them was prepared to burst as lovely porcelain that came into contact with unforgiving and strict marble.

"Alright…I suppose it would be a lot easier, and we wouldn't have to be alone anymore."

"Thank you!" Lips overtook that bronzed cheek once again.

"You're welcome. Now let's go get you a pair of jeans."

Before leaving, Anya gathered her things within her suitcase after folding each of those articles into smaller squares. She had traveled lightly as she usually did, never a child requiring all too much, those items fitting into that carrier as a hand inhabited a glove made far too large.

And Alfred checked her out of that luxurious hotel, the girl ready to abandon those gaudy chandeliers and her pretentious room for a place more welcoming.

They did not take her luggage back to Alfred's home. Instead, they were placed within the back of that attractive black automobile, while the owner of those nearly forgotten tangibles sat inside the front seat, mentally preparing herself for that exalted pair of trousers.

"Alfred, do you really think I'll look nice in jeans?"

There had been several times before that Anya imagined herself taking on the flesh of those expensive denim beauties, despite her father's acidic opinions and the very cost of owning such material.

"I think you look good in everything."

"Well, alright."

"Why? Are you nervous?"

"No. Of course not; it's pants…But I'm not really sure if it would be worth it to buy me a pair of jeans. I only own one pair of pants and my father gave them to me to sew into something else."

"Did you try them on?"

"…No."

"Yes you did."

"Well…fine. I did."

Alfred hid his laughter. "How were they?"

"Too big. Or maybe I'm just too small. Either one." Miniscule grins were exchanged.

"So you only have dresses?"

"That's right."

"Well, we're going to fix that. You should have one pair of jeans, don't you think?"

"I suppose. But only one…"

"Right…And a T-shirt."

"_A T-shirt!_" That word was spoken as if the blond man had just suggested high treason. "That's enough! Stop buying me things!"

"You can't wear jeans with a dress. You need a T-shirt."

"Well, I'll just make my own! There's no reason to purchase everything."

"Oh? Do you have a secret T-shirt company I don't know about? Why didn't you tell me?"

"No, you silly American! Why would I own a secret T-shirt company?"

"Well, since you don't have a T-shirt company, you can't make your own T-shirt, so I'll have to get you one."

That suffering Russian doll cried in her distress, breaking into her original tongue. "_You are so stubborn!_"

"So are you."

"Ah!" Her back fell against that warmed seat. "Stop it! Please, _please _don't buy me anything. I feel horrible."

"Fine…I _guess_ you can make your T-shirt. But you're still getting jeans."

"Alright…I'll take those. But that's all."

"That's all. I promise."

"Thank you."

Finally, that strange pair found a store along those bustling and healthy streets, and the American pulled his lovely guest inside with her hand wrapped inside his own, those cerulean jewels widening at everything stacked so wonderfully against those walls and upon those silver hangers.

"Oh my goodness."

"Come on, Anya. You only want jeans, don't you?"

"Wait…Wait. I have to look at all of this for a moment. I don't want anything, but I need to look."

"Alright. Whatever makes you happy, darling. Tell me when you see something you like."

"I'm not going to like anything."

"Well, I'm not going to believe you." A kiss to her luminescent cheek. "Go look around. I'll be close behind you."

"Thank you, Alfie."

"You're welcome Anya."

That pretty creature came to each of those colorful racks, fingers pigmented in such wondrous hues touching to each one of them as a spring rain adhering to the sweetest flowers of spring, each of those amazing silks and lovely patterns serving as pricy petals. There was delight in all things that filled those eyes, but the owner of those gems did not allow her voice from her weighty throat. Attention bonded with each of those fantastic blouses as though each was blessed within her mind, but words choked her and nothing could be done to drink them away.

It was especially difficult, having that American chase after her, constantly inquiring, "Do you like that How about that one? Do you like that color? That blouse would look nice on you. Would you like to have that?"

Each time, there was only refusal, obstinate as the man who insisted upon bringing spoils to that exalted muse.

"Come on, Anya. You like all of these clothes."

"No; they're hideous."

The man retrieved a crimson top lined with pearly buttons as soldiers in their form, and layered froth blossoming around that sensuous neckline as a field of blissful roses.

"Will you try this one on? I saw you admiring it."

"I wasn't _admiring_ it."

"Liar."

"What?"

"You're a liar. Try it on."

"Alfie, it's so expensive-"

"_Try it on._"

"Alright; alright! _You win!_ I'll try it on. Let me get my jeans first so I'll actually have something to cover my legs.

"Thank you."

The blouse was handed to Anya, who took it with a controlled yet feisty numerals and the pair wondered to that great wall of jeans, the Russian girl a blend of excitement and unrest, amazement striking her as a lightning bolt from the very clouds. Truly, she enjoyed new things; it was common occurrence in most anyone's life to find a certain joy in fresh possessions, but twisting guilt came in receiving without earning or even simply giving in return, something that youth was incapable of at that moment. Anya had branded herself with the mark of an ugly thief, her accomplice forcing shimmering jewels upon her unwilling hands. And no matter the protests that leaked from her distraught mouth as words of serious magnitude, those stolen goods would not disappear and the new owner was left screaming and unable to empty those weighty hands.

A pair of trousers were pulled away from that great pile, finding residence within that hateful child's grasp.

"Here. Try these on. And come out so I can tell you how nice you look."

"Alfie…" There was only a sigh drowning within the projector's imminent emotion.

"You can do it. I believe in you. The dressing rooms are over there."

"Thank you…"

"What now?"

"I said…Thank you."

"You're welcome, Anya." A kiss pressed to her embarrassed visage. "I love you."

"I love you too, even though you're making me frustrated. I'll go try these on now."

"It's what I do best, isn't it?"

"Yes, and I still love you…for some reason."

A touch of utter honey and a moving young woman.

Anya stepped into a singular dressing room and regarded herself within that long mirror, unbuttoning her clasps and staring into her very own crystals. Gaze connected to the form trapped within that looking glass, new pants slipping around those thin legs and that crimson colored shirt overtaking her shoulders and embracing her torso.

And for a moment, that pretty thing admired herself, enjoying that blouse and the look of those limbs, (even though those jeans were somewhat stiff.) Newer black boots seemed to tie the outfit together as a freshly wrapped gift, old wrapping removed and a prettier hide enveloping that precious article.

Yet, Anya did not want them with such beautiful ties and glowing laces.

Because now Alfred would certainly purchase them for her.

Feet brought her into the eye of the public, old fabrics left to sit within that room and a lover awaited her arrival. His focus came to her as an alcoholic to delicious wine, and those joyous azure eyes overpopulated with her very image; he stared, almost as though he witnessed the return of a savior, and that angel was gorgeous within her shimmer.

"Don't you look nice?" And Alfred drew closer. "Do you like them?"

The bearer of that weighty attention could not lie, even though newborn untruth resided upon her tongue as young poison from the fangs of an angered snake. The American simply glanced into those marbles and read everything written within them as a sign composed in blaring red ink.

"Change back into your normal clothes and I'll get them for you. Then we can do whatever you like."

"I want to make you a cake."

"Then you can make me a cake."

They stood at that counter while Alfred paid for those exalted articles, the new owner finally dead within that great body of loathing. Simple clothing had cost more than anything she had been giving, hands touching to golden things before, but never had she seen something as a necessity carry such a steep requirement. Ivan had never given her such waste of holy currency, and again, Anya knew that he would be disgusted, telling her she could create her own clothing just as well.

The bag as passed to her dirtied hands, soaking inside their imaginary dung and that drowning creature looked to her donor.

And he read her mind.

"Don't worry about it! You're beautiful! You should have something nice, don't you think?"

"Couldn't we go somewhere cheaper? Are all stores here this expensive?"

"No, they're not. But I wanted you to get something worth having. Speaking of which, I still need to get you a T-shirt."

"No more, please…"

Blond brows bent in their unfettered sympathy. "Well. I'll just send you something. That way you can't argue with me. Are you ready to head back?"

"Yes. I am."

Lips adhered softly to the man who owned them and the two joined hands once again.

Within that car there was silence, the gorgeous soul's mind so full of her guilt and all her scathing emotion. It did not feel right, accepting so much, especially when she loved the man so intensely who had given it.

"Alfred?"

"Yes Anya?"

"…Can I be your girlfriend?"

There was a dry pause. "Are you saying that because you feel guilty? Or do you really want me as your boyfriend?"

"No. I truly do want to be your girlfriend. It's not right that we're only friends. I'm closer to you than that." Anya glanced to him a long duration. "I love you, and I want to call you mine. And I want to be yours."

"…I would really like that. But you know your father would be upset."

"I know, but this is _my_ life. I'm not his 'little baby' anymore. I want to make my own decisions, and it's not like I'm going to tell him that I'm not going to speak to him any longer. Why can't I have you both?"

"Because, Anya…it's a tough situation."

"It would be a tough situation if I loved any man…In his eyes I'm still an innocent three year old girl with no idea of how the world works. It wouldn't matter if I fell in love with a homeless American or an ingenious Russian. He would still have to let go of me. So I might as well take who I truly want. And that's you."

"Are you sure you want me, Anna?"

"Yes. Of course I do."

"Even though you'll only be able to see me once a month?"

"You're always on my mind."

"And even though Ivan will be upset?"

"This isn't about him. And he can get over it. Like I said, it's my life." Anya's eyes softened. "When I said I loved you, I meant it. And I wouldn't be here if I didn't want you. I truly love you, Alfred. I don't care that you're American, and I hope you don't care that I'm Russian. We're all just people. We can both feel happiness and sadness and all those things, so why can't we be in love? Who made these stupid rules?"

The girl was simply given a smile composed of understanding.

"I don't give a damn about the rules. I'm going to take what I want and my father can simply accept it. Because I love you and I'm serious. If I truly cared about everyone else's opinions, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have kissed you. I wouldn't have even _spoken_ to you, but here I am. We've spoken and kissed and held hands, and I'm in love with you. So is being with you any worse than the things we've done? It seems like calling you my boyfriend is just putting a label on what we already have. Because I _am_ yours. But I need permission before I can call you mine."

The American thought a moment.

"You've had me a long time now. So you can be my girl, even if Ivan dismembers me. We're closer than just friends."

"Thank you, Alfred. I love you."

"I love you too."

Hands curled together as tangled shoelaces, either party filling with their acknowledged affection. There was uncertainly and there was doubt, but they did not fear the reasons why attempts should not be made, because within every situation lies chance. Amorous hearts had grown as the tallest of sunflowers within that shimmering garden, raising above all the others stuck within that possessive soil. They were looked upon with unrivaled jealousy and judgment, but those golden souls could not feel the bitter thoughts the others had so cursed them with, their stems far too heavily grown together to allow them focus to another inside that vast and bustling bed.

And Anya swallowed her welling happiness, tears of utter and unmarred bliss conspiring against those ruling sapphires.

But she kept those emotions, each one as a different keepsake from the hands of her loving Alfred.


	47. Chapter 47

So Anya stayed within her wonderland, constantly keeping close to that newly donned lover as a butterfly to the sweet nectar of a blossom. A cake had been created all in infatuation, as well as lunch and dinner and each of those sugared snacks in between. Not due to adopted debt, but because that near house wife wished to bring her faux spouse joy, and perpetual love leaks from an oven as passionate blood in the midst of war.

And one night, they sat together amongst those healthy blooms within the man's seasoned back yard, the young woman with a cigarette between her painted lips and the man wearing satisfaction against his.

"Are you going to bed soon, Anya?"

"Yes. I am."

It was late, yet neither of them was truly tired. It was an inquiry of solid obligation.

"Do you want to see a movie tomorrow?"

"You know I do."

"Great. I'm going to get ready for bed, alright?"

"Sure."

They kissed once another goodnight.

"I love you Anya."

"I love you too, Alfie."

And as he left, immediate lonesomeness saturated that girl's chest. So she stood as well, ready to prepare for wondrous sleep.

Anya went to her assigned chamber, kept so far from her dear Alfred's space and glanced at herself inside the bathroom mirror, taking in her face, those glittering eyes, that appealing red dress…

And again, there was longing living with her most isolated cavities.

The brush came into contact with those ashen blond strands, and crimson fabric slipped from her dainty shoulder, only to be positioned in its place a moment later.

She certainly did not look ready for bed.

And from utter impulse, the young woman left her expected post and crept into those silent halls, those emptied vases, the paintings, and all those possessions that made that mansion the luxurious institution it was.

And she landed within Alfred's room, barely managing a knock.

He was reading a comic book upon his bed.

"Hello. Do you need something sweetheart?"

"No. I was just lonely…I don't want to go to bed yet."

"Well, you can sit with me."

"Thank you."

That figure kept so elegantly in that scarlet cloth moved nearer to that American's bed, taking brief inhabitance upon those wondrous sheets and coming to a sweeter proximity to the man who took possession of them.

Their bodies fell into an embrace, Anya's hand touching to the side of that tanned visage.

"You're cute, Alfie."

The comic book was set aside. "You are too, Anya." They came closer to one another. "I'm glad you came to see me. I didn't want to be alone either."

"Hmm." Her lips pressed to his.

And his to hers.

And hers to his.

And his to hers.

And they remained, those mounds slightly parting and those tongues slipping from their taverns, bodies losing control and coming at less distance, as those two working organs melded together, buds brushing past one another and soft noise filling the air.

The man fell upon his curious Russian girl, their mouths still well occupied as she took one of those battered palms and brought it to her chest.

Immediately, he pulled away.

"Anya…"

"What's wrong?"

"I was specifically told that I wasn't allowed to touch you."

"I know…" A hand stroked through those golden strands. "I know." And those fingers found homes. "But I still want to kiss you. And touch you."

"I can't."

"You have hands." A naughty smirk.

"I know."

Anya stole back the American's palm and set it upon her shoulder. "Would you like to see how pale I am?" That sensuous red strap came from her snow white collar. "I'm soft too."

"I'm certain you are." And Alfred pulled away, standing up.

The girl followed, gently touching her hands to those pretty blades and resting her chin against his shoulder.

"I know it's hard not to see my father when you look at me." Slender arms stole away his chest. "But he's not here; I am. So are you. And I'm yours and you're mine and I love you so much my heart could burst." A palm rested upon the left hemisphere of that plain. "Yours could too."

"Anya, you're beautiful, but I can't."

That lily white hand moved slowly down those abdominals, but was caught before actual progress could be made.

And that intruder whined in play.

"Anna, I'm serious."

"Close your eyes."

"No."

"Just do it…"

"_Anna, no…_"

"_Do it!_ I'll take your glasses, Mr. Jones. And don't go thinking I won't."

"I know you won't. I won't let you."

"I can be pretty tough, Alfie." Fingers stroked that collarbone. "You don't have to close your eyes. I can close my eyes and you can put your hands wherever you want. Maybe back on that comic book, or…"

"Anna, you need to stop."

"_Why?_"

"Because I'm tempted. And I told your father that I wouldn't lay a finger ion you. I've made a promise."

"How many times have you listened to my father, really?"

"Anna."

"Come on, Alfred." The girl removed herself from that embrace and came to the door, closing it softly. In persistence, she unzipped her dress and allowed that fabric to curl against the carpet, around her feet, leaving that dainty figure inside a bra and simple undergarments. And then she stood before him, simply glancing into his eyes.

And those clasps were undone, the girl left with a nude chest and a lonesome body.

Then she drew closer, standing before that stunned man a moment before giving a gentle embrace of the mouth. "Don't make me do this alone, Alfred."

"Anya, how could you?"

A palm slipped with such lethargy upon her stomach, leading to that opening and coming beneath that white lace. She moaned softly as those fingers began to move, weaving a little lower and inhabiting her virgin opening, so sweetly probing and bringing her pleasure.

"Anya, stop…"

"I can if you help me." Her eyes closed. "Ah…That feels good." Sensuous noise came in Russian, mouth poised as lovely as it ever had been.

Numerals slipped from their minute pool, slightly soaked in that warm fluid and the one possessing them grasped her undergarments, pulling them away as a snake peeling excess skin from newer flesh.

And she threw them into that pile of useless garments, not casting so much as a glance behind her.

"Anya…"

"Are you hard yet?"

"No."

"Then I'll help you."

That naked creature came to her knees and unbuttoned those jeans as a horrid obstacle before her, receiving assistance from the former wearer, denim expiring against the floor, soon joined by the American's own cotton.

And for long seconds, she was required to look, never having seen that organ spoken of so many times previously, nor expecting it to be such a size. Blades drifted through those golden curls as if that odd configuration was something well exalted.

"…I'm a virgin."

"I'll be gentle with you."

"Thank you…Will you help me? Tell me how you like it."

"Alright." The girl's hand was taken and wrapped around the shaft. "Don't be afraid of hurting me. You can grip it harder."

And Anya did.

"That's nice. Now pump."

That palm began to shift, touch ginger while fingers were smooth.

"Aah…"

"Does this feel good?"

"Yes. Just a little faster."

And those instructions were followed, that sudden child watching in fascination as that organ slowly came to stone, and she could not believe she was truly not at home, simply daydreaming this very moment as she had so many times previously.

"Ah…"

So suddenly, Anya became a pool of mixed emotion, both happy and unsure of what exactly was to transpire. Her cheeks had become bright red and never had she felt such a great commitment to foolish debauchery.

But she wanted Alfred with every aching vein. For so long she wished to grant that livid soul to the one she had so relentlessly fell in love with, and he was before her, moaning into her busied palm.

Gently, that tip found crevice and Anya began to draw upon it softly, keeping all her focus against her darling American.

"Ah…"

"Do you like this?"

"Yes." A slight gasp. "But you can stop for now. I want to pleasure you."

"Of course."

The girl stood and the man removed his last article of clothing, then so softly captured her within an embrace.

"I love you, Anya."

"I love you too, Alfred."

And either pair of passionate lips met, desiring such intimacy for what could have been years. But they had not yet found one another in that vast waste land of emptiness, hearts maneuvering past barbed wire fences and harsh words and judgmental gazes and found one another within broken sights. And there they were, basking in the warmth of the opposite's rushing blood as the essence diving in such great perseverance from the great fall, cores tying together with all their scarlet ribbons and tangling into a beautiful and unfixable knot. Their tongues mated as loving serpents as curious hands explored opposing flesh, the tanner of the two landing against that pale goddess's figure without a single intention of harm.

And their kiss shattered a moment, sapphires melding into one another and warped by that sugared mold. And the man kissed his darling siren, the taste of that gorgeous mouth far better than the flavor of longing sin.

And his tongue touched to her neck, her nipple, her stomach, her thighs, that sickly kiss landing upon her opening and making her very nerves writhe in open pleasure.

"Ahh…Alfie."

And that organ slipped past her deepest sections, implanting euphoric gasps into her willing mouth and causing those primary phrases to tear from her throat.

And a slight laugh came from the man bringing them.

"You're cute."

"Ahh…"

And as that tongue focused upon that blossoming pearl, fingers sunk into that cavern of soaking flesh.

The possessor's fingers gripped those sheets as though she would be thrown from them.

Ecstasy coursed through her body easily as her very crimson, causing her complexion to turn to the hue of a rose, happy moans revolving about her petals, gasps fitting so easily between them.

Digits came from their places and that active tongue replaced them, those awful and needy feelings taking her.

"Ah!"

And she had finished within that short time.

The Russian girl drew herself upwards, lips contorting into a shamed line.

"I'm sorry…Was that too fast?" Fingers drifted through those feathery and deep golden strands. "That felt really good."

"No, sweetheart. You're just fine." A kiss, and the man joined his darling upon that surface, dimming those bright lights beaming from that boyish lamp while regarding the young woman so much of his love had afflicted.

Alfred wrapped his own hand around that hardening member while touching his orifice's to that of his company, pumping slowly and causing that arousal to grow firm. It did not take long.

"Would you like to…I'm hard enough."

"Yes. I would. But please be gentle with me. I don't know what to expect."

"Don't worry. It only hurts once." And he descended upon her with slow motion, embracing that lovely body a moment as their lips came into weighty unison. Anya fell upon those ruined sheets and closed her eyes as legs spread. A touch adhered to a cheek as Alfred's tip pressed softly to that still virgin opening, and there was a sigh before that member truly shattered her.

"…Are you sure about this?"

"Yes. I am…"

"I feel like I'm about to give you a piercing that can't be removed."

"Well, I want it. Please; I really do."

"Alright…" Another tinge of honeyed affection and the man eased himself into that lovely young creature, her arms wrapping around him and her bottom lip receding.

"A-ah…"

"I know…" A careful thrust was given. "Ah…You'll enjoy this more next time…"

There was a silent wince and Anya simply held to her American, hoping he would finish sometime soon.

The pain could be withstood. It was all for her venerated lover, although that very act was something excruciating. But Anya enjoyed that odd closeness they shared with one another; despite her once pleasure nerves screaming in their temporary ache.

And she listened to those gasps exhibited inside her lover's mouth, and appreciated every attempt he created to be kind to her, even though that writhing discomfort would likely have affected her deeply regardless of his graces.

"Alfred…"

"Ah…How are you doing, Anya?"

"I'm alright."

A slight moan. "I love you…"

"I love you too…" The girl held tighter to the figure causing such horrid feeling and allotting such wondrous love, her heart cringing at the very mixture of both.

So it went on, the man's body saturated in pleasure and that girl's inhabited by pain. Her mind went to each of those people inside her life who could not now about that thoughtless phenomenon. Now that the ecstasy had fallen, and all that displeasure had devoured its very presence, the owner of those contrasting events wished that she could have taken several steps backward.

Her father would hold such unending disappointment if he knew.

But he would not. No one besides Anya and Alfred themselves would.

And finally, that man stopped, panting with long breaths and looking into that gorgeous doll's eyes.

"Shit…"

"What? What happened?"

"I meant to stop…" And he fell to the place next to her, his member falling from that crying opening as he doused her within tired arms. "I'm sorry…"

"So I am going to be pregnant now?"

"Probably not. Unless you're ovulating."

"…Ov-u-lat-ing?" She was unfamiliar with the word in English.

"Don't worry about it." A kiss and a pair of lidded rhinestones.

"Alright." The girl was simply thankful that twisted marathon had come to its close.

And either closed their eyes, Alfred too exhausted to rise and Anya wishing to stay in one place, grateful to have her darling so near in proximity, despite her welling mind, so inhabited with troubled thoughts.

Eventually, she slept, her energy exhausted.


	48. Chapter 48

She had missed her period.

She had missed her period and she began to panic.

Anya returned home with a heart light as those wondrous clouds residing inside her mind, and as she sat against that seat, stuffing shaking fingers into herself and praying for the blood that was two weeks late, core condensed to a great and black boulder as poisonous as lead. That mass fell through each of those weakly constituted nets and destroying the entire sky as that earth was struck.

It was a powerful mallet to her innocent collarbone.

"Come on, God damn it! _Bleed._"

"Anya, are you coming out soon? We're about to eat dinner!"

"Yes papa!" And that sweating brow came to quivering palms. "_Shit!_"

Perhaps it was a simple anomaly. She had been late before, and so many other times she had not been pregnant. That shaken mind traced back to that painful and fantastic night, trying in great desperation to enumerate each of those idiotic days before hand, but those thoughts came inside muddled pairs, unable to be separated no matter how those persistent fingers tore and pried.

That aggressor was only left with crimson blades and battered nails.

But it was not the essence she so desired to lace her fingers.

Numerals conformed to the shape of a ball, a makeshift hammer held before that stomach and driving nails into a susceptible middle with as much force available, multiple hits completed before a name was called from the silence.

"Anya! Come on!"

"Coming!" and her back fell against that seat, a long sigh leaving her exasperated lips. "_Shit._"

Legs brought her to a forced stand, and those pure white panties were pulled to that slender waist, the very pair the girl had removed a virgin and replaced feeling a newer woman.

Her father was granted her company, and she ate with that weighty and incomplete secret.

"Hello Anya. How are you?"

"I'm fine…"

"Do you feel sick? You were in there for quite a while."

"I'm feeling better now." That drowning creature was far worse.

"That's good."

Anya had returned home from America, dressed in her new shirt and jeans and leaving behind that destroyed girlhood as well as her very heart. The man who had stolen them away with such harsh embraces would not give them back, those possessions kept as royal gems against a glittering crown.

But she had taken his core as well, wearing that ruby as though she had received it from an emperor's palm.

Yet despite those heavy affections and words of beaming love, her stomach could have very well taken life, that blossoming garden requiring such horrid energy all for something unwanted. But there was reality, holding its scythe and looking upon that helpless girl with eyes chillier than harsh winter, a cruel and terrible thing.

Anya did not know whether to wait or go to the doctor or tell or father or write a letter to Alfred or to simply find a set of long and forgiving stairs and end that possible plight by a hapless trip; regardless of the solution she worried, concern hidden beneath a thin veil and lips ready to bend to tears. If one was searching, one would recover it, but luckily, the one man who should have been tearing through that shallow flesh was not, and Anya would have her time as long as that fertile stomach remained flat and that figure remained dry of all its typical symptoms.

And hours went, the girl doing her work with thought suffocating her; she slept in concern and lived with all while coding that terrible laceration with blackened paint, keeping that statue from the curious eye of her intelligent father, who did not seem to notice that something was indeed amiss.

It was not as though Ivan was an irresponsible parent or anything of the sort. Anya was simply a skilled liar, able to submerge her troubles in the deepest of murky waters, having done so several times in the past. If it went on, surely he would notice, but Anya kept that possible truth hidden beneath her thick misrepresentations.

Finally, she missed another month's blood, realization shaking her heart as the plague claimed its innocent victims. Her core sunk into a well holding no light, housing suffocating death and fetid nightmares.

There were thoughts placed around purchasing a test, and of course, the girl sought help as soon as her suspicions came to a greater possibility. With thin hope, she left one day when her father had gone away to work, knowing he would be several hours within that horrid office.

Quick feet fell into that town until she had found that needed exam, her faith filling the mold of that weighty pink box inhabited with the answer she so desperately needed. It weighed heavy within her broken hand.

Anya did not even go home.

A restroom was found and as soon as those anticipant legs spread, her last hope was torn from its package and utilized with careful attention to each of those crushing details, specific and treated as though they were the most sacred of truths from the holy orifice of God.

And she sat. And she waited, that test within her hand. In a bought of girlish foolishness, she closed her eyes and hoped to awake a virgin, unable to watch as her potent hormones filled that screen and screamed her answer as a billboard about a busy road, despite that window being hardly the size of her pinky nail.

Anya could not bear the longest three minutes of her life.

When those immature cerulean gems opened, her heart beat ceased and that mocking cross set so daintily inside that fateful well grinned at her, blaring as a demon that had just won the life of a victim. Sanity cracked after those solid weeks of unregulated worry only to find that every existence cracking suspicion had been true.

Tears welled within those shattered sapphires and sobs strangled her, emotions of anger and hatred and battered love and misery and bitter acceptance tearing through every sense kept awake within her pregnant body and bringing her writhing that could not be quelled with even the relief of wondrous death.

Again, Anya swallowed the poison that could not bring her soul release, only suffering.

The test was left upon the floor without even a droplet of regard, and that child, so full of another life, walked home, vision drowning and innocence finding an unwanted coffin.

Regretfully, that nymph so full of sunshine and blissful hues had been made a mother, a once empty field beaming with a life she did not desire, the new arrival of pigments left crimson and golden and emerald and azure taking the energy from the bearer's very form. And Anya walked on, no longer a sweet and carefree infant, but a depressed and uncertain woman.

That stem, broken and withering was irreplaceable. And the sunflower accepted its imminent fall.


	49. Chapter 49

Finally, that girl simply waded within her bathtub, hands centered upon that small and fertile hill residing inside her very soil, allowing simple and near loving strokes.

"I'm sorry that I hit you, little one. It wasn't right of me. I'm just not ready for you…But I shouldn't hurt you."

Within her acceptance, that new mother did not wish to flush away her child. She could not live with herself had she destroyed something that could have been so wondrous, that malformed creature likely about to become her entire life; Anya would regret stopping such progression.

A pregnancy would be incredibly hard, yes. But to her it would be even more difficult to take the life of something so precious. There was not a prepared state for her motherhood, nor even a ready thought for the rest of that forming child's inhabitance, but she was carrying the offspring of the man she so desperately adored. Her body was not the victim of a terrible soul's sullen fantasies, nor was her condition that of a drunken and unintentional meeting. She desired that passion, even though the byproduct was not expected or even wanted.

But Anya could not bear to think that way, because she too was an accident, and she too was unwanted, and she too could have been just as easily destroyed before her birth. And Anya had been told thousands of times what an unintentional blessing she was.

Her father was not ready for her. But she was well aware that he adored her with every last fiber within that enormous being; that she had erased that putrid silence that had taken such a cardinal room inside that emptied home.

And she had taken an oath.

The life she carried within her would not be left or abandoned. If Alfred wished to be the child's father, she would allow him that opportunity. But she would not toss that infant's existence into that darkened well, nor would she repeat the actions her very own mother had. Because Anya knew the direct pain it had caused, and everything she had would be sacrificed for that innocence, the very phoenix that had risen from the ashes of her shattered childhood and even took residence within the same quadrant. Love would be given to that demanding life, and family would be built as its walls, as well as so many other requirements pouring relentlessly from the nymph's very own essence.

Because despite the young carrier's regret and hesitance, there was promise pulsing inside her as quick blood, that fresh existence would be given all those wondrous things its grandparents had been too foolish to assign to the mother. Anya would not behave as an identical magnet with her partner, constantly repelling him while being pushed away herself. There was knowledge that Alfred would work at her side, despite all of those amusing quirks and odd compulsions, he was a wonderful man, and that fruitful girl knew her darling would be taken with unfettered guilt.

Anya knew he would, simply because he was that sort of personality.

A letter had already been sent to him, and the sender was waiting their next meeting, having begged him not to write back.

Had Ivan opened that letter, as he had accidentally done in the past, there would be a debt of infinite hell, and Anya needed to conserve to pay such a bone shattering toll.

So she waited, prepared to speak with Alfred of her condition the moment they should cross one another.

The meeting was somewhat late. Everyone had grown less busy and in truth was tired of traveling so frequently. An extra few weeks were taken in a sort of diluted vacation, those ticking hours dying at the speed of eventful years making Anya sick to her already infested stomach. But that day finally arrived, and the pair began to pack their bags, the unsuspecting man and the new woman traveling two months pregnant.

It was fortunate that hellish growth was not yet noticeable.

And they landed. And they checked in. And they went off to that great hall, the girl's heart pounding within her chest, palms secured upon that growing stomach (her father's inquisitive glance kept from that gesture as best they could be.)

As usual, Anya received a kiss from Ivan and parted ways after tossing her greetings to each of those odd acquaintances. Katya was still not there, likely hiding herself away inside a reclusive corner. Everyone was very much required to go to those awful gatherings.

And as Anya sought Alfred, Alfred came speeding towards her as a train gone derailed and wrapped her inside a careful embrace, holding her near as though they had not seen one another in entire years.

The expected apologies came.

"Anya, I'm so, so sorry…"

"It's alright Alfred. We just need to decide what to do."

"You aren't going to get rid of it, are you?"

"No…I couldn't do that."

The girl was kept even closer, as a locket to a darling lover. "I'm so sorry Anya…But I'm going to take care of you and give you anything you need." Alfred let go a moment and removed two bottles from the pocket of that dependable jacket. "I brought you some vitamins. I'm guessing you haven't told your father yet."

"No, of course not." Shells found refuge within her purse. "If I did, he'd be here now, ripping you into little bits." Those straps reconnecting with their carrier's slender shoulder. "I'm sorry, Alfie. Don't blame yourself. I forced you to make love with me anyway."

The man did not formulate reply, only held those wells so full if their emotion and word.

"I still love you. I was angry for a while, but I can't be upset with anyone but myself. It doesn't matter who did what or any of that. We still need to decide what we're going to do."

"You're right."

"Well…Let's talk about this. Can we sit down first? I'm beginning to feel sick."

"Of course."

Young hands twined together and form found a bench to reside upon, backs lining an ancient wall while their gazes formed chemical bonds with that oppressive ceiling. No longer were they able to glance to that leisurely sky, hearts bearing weighty necessity and their time no longer freed. That great melon growing within Anya's garden was far too taxing for the pair to concentrate upon any other privilege.

And they sat quietly, either head drowning within incoherent thought and mouths nearly welded shut inside that great silence.

Within that abyss, the American threw his voice, phrase in Russian for fear of all those hungry ears that indeed could comprehend that popular tongue.

"…When you told me, I wasn't sure what to do. To be honest, it felt like I was crushed with a boulder. But I thought about it, and I had actually written you about ten letters all saying the same thing in different words…I didn't send any of them." His palm engulfing hers. "I decided that it would be best of we were married."

Anya thought a moment, that near proposal injecting her with static. "…I don't want to be married because of an accident. I want us to grow together and truly prove that we love one another. I know that I adore you, but who's to say that we can't be separated or that something terrible can't happen between us? I want more than anything for our child to have both parents, but I couldn't do that if it meant constant arguing or bringing more harm than actual good."

There was a lengthily pause taken, as if the next statement was to be recorded upon stone.

"My mother and father would argue all the time, at least, that's what I've heard. And I can honestly say that I was happy with a peaceful home, even though they weren't married and my mother wasn't there. It wasn't right for my father to keep Katya from me, but I just…" Seconds dissolving in those powerful thoughts. "I don't want to go from being your girlfriend only a few weeks to your wife. It's unfair to either of us. But if things go well and we can get through this whole pregnancy nonsense, then I'll marry you. I'll certainly marry you. Because I _do_ love you, but right now, it's too early. And I want to make a commitment when I know it will work and we _can_ love each other for more than a few months. At least then we won't have to lie to our child while we fight like animals only a room away. That's not right."

And Alfred only seemed hurt, as though that pretty Russian girl had poured acid into his open chest. "I wouldn't have approached you if I didn't want you forever. I'm not that sort of person. And because I have done this to you, there's already a commitment. I will not leave you or my child or any future children or anything. Anya, _I belong to you._ And that means I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure that everything works out for either of us. You shouldn't have to do this alone…"

Those windows held so much raw and poignant truth, the opposite could only absorb them; wading within the actions she had caused and the probable hell she had dropped her dearest lover inside, as thought that sweet man had been unintentionally been thrown down an impossible well.

"I would have asked you to be my wife at some point anyway. So why does it matter if it's now or a year from now? _I love you_, and I don't want anyone else."

"But Alfred, a lot can happen in a year. Maybe you _won't_ love me anymore. _You can't know._ I love you; I truly do, but I don't want a divorce. If I can stay with you, I will. I don't know what my father will say. I might not be able to speak with you ever again. But I truly do want both of us to be there. It's your child too." A quiet stop beneath crushing weight. "I would be willing to stay with you. I'll move from Russia and I'll live with you, but if something goes wrong, I don't want to deal with a divorce. It would be both unnecessary and painful."

Again, the American man simply held his mask of near writhing.

"Please don't look so sad, Alfred. I want to marry you, but it would be better to wait only a few months. You're mine, Alfie. Every part of me belongs to you. I just can't rush into another decision. I'm already pregnant. There's no reason to get into more trouble, especially when we don't have to." His hand was possessed by even tighter fingers. "I love you…" And that palm was drawn to her stomach, that small and lush growth causing an electrical impulse against those dedicated numerals. "I want you to name our child."

"…No."

"No?"

"No. We should decide together…"

And with a smile, that muse kissed her darling's cheek. "Alright. If it's a boy, can I name him?"

"Why a boy?"

"Because…I have a good boy's name."

"What?"

"Sergei…I've always loved that name. Would that be alright?"

"Yes. I have a good girl's name anyway."

"What is it?"

"Molly."

"Molly?" A brief grin. "…I really like that name."

"I do too."

And for long seconds either remained in their silence, minds whirling within that great tornado of utter focus and consideration. There was far too much to discuss.

"Anya, you really should tell Ivan soon. If you like, I'll tell him with you, but he needs to know. I doubt he'll be surprised when you go into labor with your stomach clearly…"Those words could not meet their ends.

"I know. He would find out anyway. But regardless, I think it would be best if I told him myself. The minute you say it…Well. He'll probably think you raped me no matter what you try to convince him. My father won't listen to you. I wouldn't be surprised if he punched you in the face the second it escaped your mouth. But at least I'll be able to tell him exactly what happened. I can deal with a few bruises. And I'll tell him exactly what I plan to have happen."

"Does he always hit you when you make a mistake?"

"No. He's usually very kind to me. But when I do something stupid, especially to this magnitude, I usually carry a reddened cheek for a few days. This time I think I can expect something slightly worse. But I'll be alright."

"If you're sure, Anya. I won't tell him if you don't want me to. He's your father."

"Thank you, Alfred. I'll take care of everything and then I'll write you a letter once we've come to a close…"

"Alright."

The new parents sat in their dying contemplation, the world around their very hides seeming to stop inside its massive revolution while actions so saturated in love and worry grew as a wondrous oak tree. Either held hope, despite that great fall of mirth and rise in sickly responsibility. But they would work with all that was allowed inside their begging palms, taking those snapping sticks and fragmented tape, all in the foolish will to craft a bridge.


	50. Chapter 50

Morning sickness hit as a great mallet to the poor girl's stomach, scheduled so wonderfully in the barest hours of the morning. Anya would let go of that internal mess and pray her father would not hear the sound of her upset falling within their toilet.

Of course, she had not yet told him, although she had placed her words a thousand times over as an artist creates a drawing, erasing certain lines and putting new editions within their place. There was panic for each syllable, thus leaving the worried creator with a paper marred and grey.

There was no correct order to quell her father's coming rage.

And Alfred, having thought she had spilled that golden information and was forbidden to speak or write sent two plane tickets to New York, one intended for her and the other for her father. A simple note came attached reading, 'Let's talk' and nothing more.

Staring at those pretty gateways so composed in thickened paper made her even more nervous; now there was an obligation; now there was a deadline.

And her stomach kept developing.

And her secret crushed her as an insect beneath a boulder.

And her father would know at some point.

And it was about time that secret was told.

Finally, that lovely and abandoned child decided to allow those words from her throat, as though she was releasing doves from a cage built in barbed wire, that man so deep inside the forest of ignorance. Surprise came because a voice had not risen against those precise trips to the restroom, nor that those great and terrifying windows had not touched to that growing mound caught within her center.

Truly, Anya hoped she would be allowed to keep that wondrous life that she had grown so attached to. In her bathing, a careful layering of soap was lathered about that stretching flesh, and despite all of those bitter sacrifices all meant for that growing pearl, there was a sort of love nourished within that cursed garden, despite that heavy weight gathered upon the infant mother's back.

But life was a cruel overlord. She was well prepared to be told that she would never meet that incandescent flower once it had come from her field.

And she approached her father.

"Papa…"

"Yes, Anya?"

"May I speak to you a moment?"

The man regarded her with heavy eyes, reading all that was written about her lovely face.

"You're pregnant, aren't you?"

And the accused did not have alibi, heart stopping and blood freezing as though it had converted to marble.

"I've noticed remnants of your vomit in the toilet; you're growing a stomach, however small it may be now…Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"

"I-I didn't know how to tell you…"

"Well, who did it? Were you raped?"

"No. I wasn't raped."

"It's Alfred's child, isn't it?"

With strain came the exiled word. "…Yes."

And the calm before that horrible storm vanished, a dream too wondrous to be tangible. The girl was sent to those creaking boards with a powerful blow from the back of her father's wrathful hand.

"You little whore! How could you? I give you a chance and you betray me? You get pregnant? _I trusted you!_ I trusted you and you simply go ripping away your clothes! You _cannot_ do whatever you please! Especially not with that _pig!_ _How dare you?_" The criminal was stolen from the floor. "I should beat that child from your whore stomach!"

"Please! Don't! Please…" Immediate tears welled in the eyes of that foolish nymph. "You can hurt me. But please don't harm my child…"

And Ivan regarded her with fire melting those horrid sapphires, ready to dismember the doll he had loved so dearly limb by screaming limb.

"How could you? _What did you do?_ Sit around naked the entire time! Did you want to get pregnant? Are you trying to piss me off? Are you trying to ruin your life? _Fucking that bastard American!_"

At the insult of her darling, Anna fought back. "He's not a bastard! He's kind and giving and I love him!"

"_You love him?_"

"Yes! _Yes, goddamn it!_" Tears infected that precious frame. "Yes…"

"It makes sense! He's just as stupid as you are!"

In her quick rage, possessed yells shot from that normally sugared throat.

"I am not stupid and neither is he! He speaks multiple languages, he lives in a wonderful home and he doesn't see me as just another Russian! Another communist! Not like you, when all Americans are evil and there's nothing right in this world except this tiny house and all the misery inside it! I want to see other places; Alfred has seen them! I want to speak different languages; Alfred speaks them! I want a better life for myself; Alfred has one! What do you have father? A heart full of hatred and eyes blinded by your own propaganda!"

Ivan would have told her to shut that foolish mouth; to take back her words, but he was too dumbfounded to raise his voice, so those bitter diatribes continued to pour as melted iron into an ugly mold.

"You never take the time to know these people you hate! You just hate them because you're supposed to, because every other Russian does! _Think for yourself!_ Alfred doesn't hate you! He tried to respect your word and bought your daughter a hotel room and new clothes and movie tickets! The world isn't a horrible black and white place! And you've been so consumed with keeping me inside this one-crayon box for my entire life! You lie to me about my own mother, you tell me that every American is a pig, you try to convince to stay in this broken down freezer for the rest of my years!"

Anya took a moment to breath and Ivan could only look into those bleeding wells, seeing all the hatred he had evoked. This barbed speech was not the result of simple anger towards a single moment. These were thoughts contained for mangled summers and never allowed to air.

And still, his mouth was left barren and dry of those warnings for that once kind fairy queen to close her lips; to stop.

One cannot stop a train once it falls from its tracks.

The wreck progressed.

"I want to be a model; you say no! I want to be a translator; you force me into this! I want to see the world and you tie a blindfold over my eyes and shove me into it! I want to wear blue, yellow, purple, and you strangle me with black! You tell me to be respectable and Russian and all these I don't want to be, but you've never taken two steps from your own front door! So what if I want to be French, English, Chinese, Japanese, _American?_ You can't force your ignorance down my throat!"

There was a sob and soft break, that voice shattered and those eyes censored by the creature's own sorrow.

"I won't allow it. I won't sit here and watch you wallow in your own hatred and rage and painful memories and whatever else leaks from your broken heart."

Again, passion came and brows sunk in their strength, marbles staring pointed swords into the father's aching heart.

"The only person I've ever hated was _you._ You and that Katya. You're both too goddamn stupid to see the entire world beneath your feet! You and all the others who claim to be so strongly communist! You're all stubborn and judgmental and hateful and I'm not going to be a part of it anymore! I'm leaving, you fucking liar! I'm leaving this awful fucking house and I'm leaving you in it, and I'm not coming back! I'm going to learn all the languages I've wanted to learn and do the things I've wanted to do and I'm going to be _myself._ Not this stupid Anna girl, but _me._"

Ivan drowned in nothing but that electric current and the essence leaking from that torn heart.

"I won't be lied to by the man who is supposed to tell me the truth, who tries so goddamn hard to keep me from pain, but truly only gives me more! I hate you, you piece of shit! Why don't you get drunk and impregnate some other woman who never wanted you! Make a replacement because you'll be lucky if you hear the name 'Anna Braginski' again!"

And they stared at one another, the girl's eyes embellished in a raging fire and the former father's broken gems drenched inside a flurry of loss and agonizing pain, covered by the faux anger taken so easily from his worn face. In the war of those two destructive and insatiable conflagrations, that unexpected spark had overpowered initial death, either converting that emerald forest once so beautiful to a heavy pile of steaming ash.

Anya had been hurt, her glare so laced in bloodied spears welling with her incoherent emotions. And that gorgeous face…That precious visage swelled with the magenta stain that rash punishment had poured so mercilessly about her rosy cheek.

This warrior was no longer a child. She was a woman; a mother even, and it was clear that those futile efforts to keep her safe became nothing but a cage, while she became a rabid animal sought on revenge and fangs oiled crimson. Bars had been torn away by savage claws, and finally, that animal so strong and alive and beautiful was unleashed and in a violent frenzy, the keeper unable to assume that very title any longer.

So Ivan stared, stared into those reflective mirrors flooded by her own phrase and yet so unmoved while he tried to swallow that welling dejection, kept beneath an ill constituted veil of required embers, but the siren was pounding fists into his soul, a weak and torn enigma. Those daggers left brands upon its defenseless flesh, leaving it alone to bleed and wither and finally lose its once joyous life to the one goddess who had donned that blessed luminary in the very first instance.

He had lost. And Anya had left deep welds that might truly never vanish in that horrid paradox of time.

"Alright…" that shattered man spoke, voice disintegrating, churning and wailing until it had become a pile of decrepit flesh. "Alright." There was a misting of painful tears, that once powerful fire converting to smoke beneath their presence. "Go…Just go."

And for the first time, Anya watched as her father's face contorted into a painful mass of tightening muscle, crystalline fragments birthed as heavy sobs drained from that twisting mouth. He retreated from the battle field, the victor's weapon still well prepared with heavy gunpowder, and found sanctuary inside his room, where the assassin would not dare follow.

That giant had been brought to his knees, bleeding, bruised, broken, and the murderer so full of might did not find a single drop of regret for the lacerations she had laid upon his defenseless hide.

Simply, she took her ticket, her passport, and her scars, abandoning that once generous and now emaciated guardian to fight away his own demons.

Anya ran with her bruises and her child.


	51. Chapter 51

Ivan sat within his chair, sobs openly draining from his parted lips as rushing water from a shattered dam. Near screams came from that twisting visage; he knew that sweet doll was gone and he could not claim her back. He had raided the school, the church, every last corner left for his starving eyes to search. And she was gone. He finally knew where she had ran away to, that ticket kept within her drawer, where her passport would have been, mocking his very frame and all those tears gathering within his eyes.

Ivan was far too late, that plane leaving and carrying his grown child upon those metal wings and that single line of vapor, leading from Russian to America, to New York…

The moment she walked through his door, he would wrap that thin body and that growing girth within his most grateful embrace, because never had he lost something so precious. His pearl had rolled away and slipped within a harsh crack between floorboards, sinking into the mire beneath supportive and withered planks.

Never had there been such passionate love within his heart. Anya was his gem, the only one he had ever truly possessed within that overbearing pile of mangled gravel. She was placed at the zenith of those grains. And Ivan was lucky, the man who had found fortune upon a sidewalk.

That single life was worth more than what he had sold it for, more than what he had given to it. And the diamonds he bled, cobbled so painstakingly by his bleeding fingers, could not hope to pay that grand debt piled against his miserable shoulders. The same debt the American could indeed afford; the debt that should have been paid each of those short and beautiful years; they were the diamonds he had never given her, the diamonds for that gorgeous Miss Anna who had deserved them her entire life and only received stones worth less than manure, each wrapped in bright red ribbon.

Anya had earned a better father, because no matter what Ivan had done or could have done, in the end, he had failed her. He had failed the only daughter he might ever call his very own. That shimmering flower had become pregnant, and she had run so many horizons away. And for the first time, that nymph could not be dragged in by her chains, those shackles well broken.

No longer was that luminescent angel his own, but the American's. The only hope left inside his large and emptied palm being a visit from her familiar feet.

He _prayed_ for that visitation, because he would have his moment to give all the words and love and diamonds to the girl that so entitled them, his apologies, his affections deeply rooted as his veins, and every last word those pallid ears wished to hold inside them, even if they were untrue. That man would give his very life to have that bustling sunflower back within his garden, because he could not fight his demons alone, nor could he face that lonesome world again after knowing the true bonds of family, after being aware of those foolish games with someone placed beneath the warmth of love, to carry that person home when their scrapes brought too much pain, to love them even in irritation and in desperate wails of horrid loss, to be at their side when they needed another hand, to hear the phrase 'I love you' repeated as the greatest of law, to have that person mean that very phrase, to have a daughter. To have a family, no matter how small it may have been…

Just to have someone to ease that constant and vast barren land surrounding them as the most relentless of quicksand.

Anya had not hesitated to pull him from that possessive grasp.

That glowing child, young and toothless had the strength he did not, for she could move those coarse boulders from his bleeding back, and her tiny palms could tear away that oppressive ceiling and offer him the wondrous gift of brilliant light.

With her absence came the death of his existence.

There was not one person against that great world she spoke so often of that he adored more.

And Ivan could only feel the unbreakable sting of unending failure towards his loss of a daughter and her loss of a father.

So the king sat upon his throne of cold dirt, the jewel from his crown far too good for that constitution and fell within another realm of wondrous homes and men who could supply it with those blazing and excessive riches.

There was only regret.

And his sanity drained from his eyes and set into his pale hands made broken. Ivan could only consider every moment he had thrown to the boards, which only brought more of those hollering sobs and leaking mind.

There was so much Anya had taken within her womb, one of those many precious things being his very heart. She was the only priceless being he had ever kept, and he would give everything if she simply made her great return.

His core did not stop its screaming.


	52. Epilogue

And Anya had come to America, tears upon her magenta cheeks and so many words within those eyes. Alfred had found her, and those broken ties were replaced with threaded gold.

Her new life began, and no longer was she Russian, but American, taking inhabitance within her lover's nest and preparing to give him that developing life within her middle.

It was hard, god was it hard…She did not mean the horrid things she had thrown at the man who had bled so often for her, working for her, feeding her, sacrificing all for the sake of her own existence. But Anya had needed to break from him, and had she not bruised him with bitter fists and the sharp whip of poisonous thought, a soul would have been encased in Russia, inside that great snow and all of the father's unending sorrow.

Just as Ivan had his outburst of weighty pain, so did Anya, her new home begging to flatten her and give her more misery to dissolve into her regretful core. She loved her father. She loved every one of those criticized fragments that had been torn from his flesh, despite the wounds that were set so deeply. Now that the cruelty and frustration had spilled and emptied from that shining jar, there was only the sugared affection left so perpetually inside that fairy's growing stomach, yet not enough resolve built within her aching blood to return and apologize, even though that warrior carrying each of her broken weapons wished so heavily to offer the defeated man the kind phrase he whole heartedly deserved.

And as Anya wept, she went to school; she made her lover his meals; she became bigger until she had swollen so large she could hardy shift from her bed without rest in between trips.

But there was no anger inside her chest towards the man who so supposedly cursed her with such burden. Alfred sent her to college, where she learned to teach, a job either had agreed upon being the best for her. And Anya was taken anywhere she needed to be, the doctors, her school, her home, all at the expense of that responsible man. He even surprised her with pretty new maternity dresses each time her size increased, despite her offers to create them from ancient bed sheets. Always, there would be the words, "My darling will have only the best." That girl was only capable of guilt.

Despite their stress and pain, that girth only seemed to tie them together. Alfred would often times accompany her to those baths, so obsessed with messaging that naked hill while giving his adoration towards the mother, who truly did not mind his near compulsive presence.

Every night, Alfred would wrap himself around Anya, an arm overtaking her shoulder blades, with a palm placed upon that swollen abdomen; he would tell her that she was beautiful; that he loved her and their child, all while dousing her lovely face with sweet presses and messaging that poor womb, because he knew how she had suffered for it.

And finally, that child came in horrid agony and the mother's blood-wrenching screams, the father holding her hand and the doctor imploring her to push, only a little harder, only a few more times. At some points, Alfred seemed even more nervous than his darling working in such vigor, her entire form writhing inside those unbearable jolts.

And Molly was born March third, her very own protests loud and healthy, either parent soaked in wondrous pride and relief.

Anya held her calming gem, counting each of those fingers and toes and kissing that minute nose, tears inside that glistening sight not birthed of pain but of utter happiness. Alfred regarded his new family and could only beam that prideful smile, holding Anya's hand as each fell deeply in love with that wondrous and newly formed blossom.

"You did so well…"

"Thank you, Alfie." And the mother rested her tired eyes, well earned exhaustion overtaking her blood.

"…Anna?"

"Yes?"

"Will you marry me?"

Worn azure pairs took him, a simper against those once screaming mounds, now kept so calm. "Of course I will. I would love that…"

"Thank you…"

They had their wedding day months after their daughter's birth, the lovely young woman clothed inside a brilliant pearly dress and the man within the classical tuxedo. Molly was held within a friend's lap, her tiny form a present wrapped in vibrant pink with a screaming bow sitting against that sweet tuff of wild blond hair.

They were happy, all living inside that mansion, the blissful child bringing even more sunshine in from those wide open frames, aglow with fortunate beams. Slowly, she began to smile and crawl and walk and speak.

With each miraculous development, Anya was reminded of her own father, and with the mighty fall of his own empire, she decided to return after nearly two years, her heart planted within soil soft and fertilized with guilt.

And that brave woman stood before that familiar home, the very same constitution she had stolen so much from, all with Molly sitting inside her loving arms, asleep, her heart pounding and her husband so many miles from her lonesome steps. Alfred had been asked to stay within his wondrous city and leave Anya to the giant she had cut down without as much as a tinge of heavenly mercy.

"Mama…"

"Hello Miss Molly…Are you tired?"

There was a small coo from a girlish mouth and a kiss came to the child's susceptible brow. "I love you. You're sweet. Did you know that?"

There was not even a response.

Anya had come so very far and standing before that ancient door caused a crying upset inside her chest. Would Ivan turn her away? Take in the sight of that American born child and simply close the door, disgust overtaking his face? Or would he forgive her, even though those terrible and barbed yells could have very well caused his suicide…

But there was indeed love for that man. Anya's words were fetid weeds bathed in utter rage and pointed lies.

This was something that needed to be done, despite the young woman's near combusting core and the weight of that sleeping girl curled against her collarbone.

Memories flavored in honey returned, when that kind man bought Anya birthday gifts when none of her peers had arrived to her party; when he had defended her when all of those cruel sentiments threatened to tear skin, all at the lack of a mother; when he had placed her against his broad shoulders and allowed her to remain, even though joints became stiff. Each of those instances he had lifted her from that bitter concrete when she had fallen. Those amorous kisses lined against her forehead, each instance just as wondrous as the last.

Every one of those kind words…

"…I love you, Molly."

"Love you, Mama…"

That innocent and fresh life touched her exhausted lips to the woman's pallid neck, enticing thin fingers to trace through short and golden tresses occupying her scalp.

There was nothing more important than the love of a child, and nothing inside that world could have brought Anya more felicity.

And she had not completed half the accomplishments her father had won within her witness.

The moment those feet had progressed, time had ceased, utterly slowing with each progressive movement towards that rotting frame. For a short minute, Anya ran to fight that chronologic lethargy and came to those front steps left so unchanged. Her fist pounded upon the door, and immediately, breath left the intruder's rapid lungs, her heart shriveling as the soft rustle of fabrics was heard within and evaporated as that portal opened.

The man standing inside that house looked several years older and far more withered than the exuberant and strong being his child had left him as. Those rhinestones, once so layered in their polish and intellect had converted to the hands of rust and wear his body had fed the entire duration, and were occupied by melancholy shock.

And Anya Jones stood helpless, mouth dry and gaping as her vision soaked before her voice could even crack those painted barriers.

So many phrases of apology and love and promise flooded her tongue and caused a heavy swallow, never able to sprout their wings and take flight from that cruel pad. They had been planned a million times over, each shaped in beauty and made gorgeous the very second Anya's feet left her shimmering home.

But now that she regarded those sad eyes she had broken so harshly and that very heart she had torn as though it was composed of thin paper, they withered before they become more than frustrated sprouts, a garden barren of its plump and imaginary fruit.

"Papa…"

Just as she had taken him, Ivan took in his daughter.

Anya had changed. Those shimmering ringlets having grown long once again and that body clothed in maturity and great care, neck lavish inside pretty diamonds and ears given to gold and pearls. Her visage had been soaked in the fountain of experience as well as duty, that child left so drunken upon her aching shoulder a tribute to each of her sacrifices. There was still beauty within that glowing doll, but it was of a new brand; the very same beam was admitted from her pores, yet there was chemical transformation within her essence, and never had Ivan been so unable to layer that intelligent thumb upon such an obvious flip.

It was as though that helpless man was taking in another of his fantastic dreams. Anticipation to fall within that pitiful state possessed him, but that revelation never arrived in its mangled cardboard box, and he was blessed with a stone of heavy emotion inside his drowning and pathetic throat.

"Papa, I'm sorry; I'm so-"

But before anymore words could breach that heavy brick wall, both Anya and her darling child were tied within that warmed and gentle embrace, the kind of touch that man had been planning since his treasure had slipped from his wide-open palm.

Either allowed their tears, fuss dissipating and sentiment rich as wine from a poorly construed flood gate.

Between them, that sour event was disintegrated into a great pile of writhing ash, and those wounds sealed as though concrete was collected to bind them, the pain and thought and nightmares all dissolving and desiccating for the second time. Once again, that brilliant luminary had waded into that darkened pool and turned waters utterly crystalline; the man drowning inside them allotting his entire heart to his blessed savior, his greatest treasure, his daughter…

And things were as they were; the pair no longer fragmented sections of a valuable diamond, but a coordinated gem, beaming in brilliance within the sunshine searing through those dour clouds and murdering each drop of perpetual rain. They were at such unbreakable bonds that words did not come, forgiveness rushing between their embrace as blood coursing through those mighty titans, either heart once so limp now functional, as a wounded leg that had healed.

Adoration had been restored, and never before had either felt such an undying relief, sentiment and incoherent love pouring bountifully from either pair of sapphires and those cores coming to rest after nearly two years of anxiety.

And they remained at their posts, promises made to one another golden and immortal as though they were just birthed, and they refused to move for moments that passed timely as the years they had missed.

Because that love was indeed strong enough to hold for summers and continents, surviving through pain and suffering either held near and so far from one another. Undying adoration could not be destroyed, that fantastic power erasing the sourest of scars and numbing that terrible ache of separation with such simple feeling.

"I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, Anna…"


End file.
